A sailor does not fight the ocean.
I got to sleep on the sea… and having read the distillations of hundreds of years of the sea seducing and torturing man (not many women I know writing odes but maybe I can) I could see it.
The night of sleep back on land you still feel the sway of the water. I fell asleep quickly, lulled by a memory that leaves an imprint.
I never before had empathized with the one who loves the literal sea and only wishes to live on the sea. It was a romantic figment, now an attunement.
Not a coincidence that after dramatically changing a structure of my life I wondered what else would change. Having the space to think… to just float away, a hangover of dissolved constructs drifted me out to the sea to match itself.
Practiced at going far away and coming back. Committed to it even.
I am noting the places in my life that felt like the ultimate, like if I just have this or just get there I will be happy. That mindset was keeping it an illusion far away, always a distant shore.
Endless mirages. I am exhausted of funneling them in accordance with a sense of judgment, what I should or should not be doing. So this, anyway, is what questioning looks like. Some nectar is gathered in the formless space and something crystallizes. A dense stick of incense evaporates by an open window. Form, formlessness, form, formlessness.