Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Windswept
When the dust has cleared I'll settle all my debts. I'll save myself from the wreck of this sinking ship, all splintered masts and creaking hulls. The sea is rushing in to fill my boots with brine; the ocean is beckoning with its gentle sighs and swells for me to disappear on the horizon. I'd like to be a plankton, drifting on the current beneath the fierce yawning sky. When I reach dry land, let me come up gasping from the water, my hair full of seaweed, my skin a mixture of sand and flesh. Let me lie on the shore as the blue moon rises high above me, crying its eerie tune; forever lonesome and wanting as it tumbles through the sky, eating pieces of itself along the way. I want the fog to swallow me whole until I worry that I've gone blind; I want it to swirl around me like a damp sandstorm, saturating every pore and strand of hair.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Secrets
There are a dozen tiny indentations in my back, on my left shoulder where I leaned into the dry grass to kiss you. The moon was nowhere to be seen that night, and soft blue-gray clouds were drifting in upon a lazy breeze that kicked up the dead leaves all around us. I am caught in the mad spiral of a dulcet daydream: the memory of the night, the touch of your hand, the smile in your eyes and the soft sighs of the dead hanging in the air. Burrs and clutches of dried vines caught in our hair and we shook them out like veils of stars, laughing. Submerged, suspended; now we wait.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Bend at the Knee
A few days ago, I had an unusual experience, one that I have never had before. Unfortunately, in addition to being out of the ordinary, it also proved to be both unexpected and extremely painful. I dislocated my left knee - wait for it - while I was dancing. I've dislocated my right shoulder several times before, so that would have come as no surprise to me, but to have my knee suddenly wrench itself apart like it's never done before and leave me motionless on the ground - fucking uncool. Luckily, I was surrounded by perceptive, helpful people who scooped me up and loaded me into someone's car with the intent of taking me to the hospital. While I was sitting in the car, taking a minute to catch my breath, my knee relocated itself. I thought, "cool, now I don't have to go to the emergency room!" Somehow (possibly through the aid of alcohol) I managed to hobble around on it just fine for the rest of the evening.
The next morning (Wednesday), I woke up in a considerable amount of pain. I started putting ice on my knee, taking painkillers, but nothing really seemed to be working. I was afraid to stand, even on one leg, because both of my knees felt so insecure. My right knee felt weak and my left knee, the dislocated one, felt, well...slippery. I was terrified it was going to dislocate again. That day I tried to make it out of the house, to go to a show, to prove to myself that I felt okay, but ultimately I'm glad I didn't go - I think I would be much worse off for it now. Today, thanks to three days of rest, a borrowed knee brace, and a borrowed walking stick, I am feeling stronger and in better spirits. I got up and was able to shower and clean my room today with no difficulties. I still have a couple more days before I have to go back to work, and I plan to continue relaxing and healing while I can.
This is the short of the story, and though it may not seem like a particularly horrible experience to some (and indeed, it ranks pretty low on the scale of traumatizing injuries), for me it has brought with it the memory of a similar, much longer story. Though this memory grows older every year it does not grow any less dim, and try as I might to lock it into a tiny room at the back of my mind, it will not stay there.
Many of my Austin friends may not know that when I was 17 (around 2006 or so), I was diagnosed with melanoma, or skin cancer. A few months prior to the diagnosis, I had gone to the doctor to have a weird bump on my right hand examined. The doctor assured me that it was probably nothing, but that she would remove it. She removed it at the base, but a few weeks later, it grew back. This time, I was anesthetized and taken into surgery, where someone dug the deep roots of this weird alien thing out of my hand. As things progressed after that first surgery, it became apparent that what I had been told was "nothing" was, in fact, a cause for concern. Shortly thereafter, a second surgery, to remove two lymph nodes near the site and examine them for melanoma cells. Confirmed: melanoma was hanging out in my sentinel node. Then, a third surgery, to remove all of the lymph nodes in that area, in case there was more that they'd missed. It appeared that they didn't. They'd gotten it all. "Great!" I thought, "at least this is behind me now."
After I had healed from my third surgery, I was called into the oncology ward of the local children's hospital - as I was under 18, this was where I could go that my insurance would cover costs, though I was much older than most of the children there. I remember sitting in the waiting room, plastic toys all over the floor, coloring books on the walls, Dora the Explorer blaring from the TVs. I remember the pale, skinny children there, all wearing warm winter clothes despite the season and soft knitted hats over their little bald heads. That hospital will haunt my dreams forever. It was there that I was diagnosed with melanoma and moved onto an immunotherapy treatment called Interferon, there that I spent 5 days a week for a month receiving these staggeringly potent treatments, there that I felt like a heroin addict trapped in purgatory, trapped in a cold echoing room as I faded away, surrounded by children too cheerful to understand that they were dying, surrounded by nurses and doctors who were too friendly, too sympathetic; who acted as though nothing that happened there were out of the ordinary, like everybody had to deal with this kind of thing every day. Needless to say, it disturbed me.
The Interferon made me feel horrible, like I had the flu all the time, and the Benadryl I took to counter-act the nausea it also caused made me even more exhausted and delirious. I did a lot of sleeping, and when I wasn't sleeping I was only awake because I was in too much pain to sleep. If someone had offered me a pill to knock me out for that entire month of my life, I don't think I would have refused. I was 17, a senior in high school, and I was, effectively, bedridden. I can't remember how much school I missed but it must have been a massive amount. I'm amazed I even graduated. Those were extremely dark days for myself and my family, physically and emotionally trying, financially frustrating, and ultimately, uncertain.
What has been ringing in my ears the most these last few days as I've been laid up at home is the horrible familiar feeling of helplessness. No matter who you are, when you cannot take care of yourself, cannot even stand up to get a glass of water without causing yourself immense pain, it fucking sucks. To lie there on the couch and watch your friends come and go, riding bikes and swimming and drinking beer and walking around, to see that life continues with or without you, can be immensely depressing. I read somewhere recently that an alarmingly high percentage of people are terrified of being a burden to others - that is, being too sick, weak, old, etc. to function on their own. I wonder who all of these people are - have they, themselves, experienced this and fear that history may repeat itself? Or is the thought of being helpless simply so appalling to those who have never lived it that they would never wish it on their worst enemies?
This is something that I have grappled with throughout my life, and it took the aforementioned incident to humble me into realizing that, yes - I was really sick. I was in a lot of pain. I could not take care of myself and I needed help. My mother was an angel, always patient, loving, and helpful, and while at first I resisted the idea of someone assisting me with everything from eating to showering, eventually I had to surrender.
As humans, we have long childhoods and adolescences, and during those years we are taught the same thing in a million different ways: how to take care of ourselves. We are taught to be proud, brave, and strong. To accept help, to admit defeat is for the weak. I learned how to accept help. At the time, that lesson was a hard one to be learned, but once I did, I relaxed. I was more clear-headed. I stopped fighting myself and tried to focus on the positive. I like to think that it helped, maybe even just a little. The last few days, however, have been a constant struggle, and I am reminded all over again of how stubborn I can be, and then I remind myself of Seamus, gritting my teeth and digging my heels in, refusing to be moved or swayed. The constant pain in my knee has been a reminder of my limits and especially a reminder of my past. I have had to remember to be patient with myself, to ask for help when I need it, and above all, to rest and restore instead of trying to push through the pain. I've always been of the opposite mindset, maybe because of my history, and am usually determined to get back on my feet as soon as possible.
I'm not entirely certain what kind of conclusion I'm trying to come to here. I've spent the last three days indoors except for buying tuna at the gas station yesterday, so as you can probably imagine, I've been doing a lot of thinking. While I entirely disapprove of the Universe's choice to strangulate my leg doing something I love (dancing and listening to wonderful music), I do think that it's important to learn what we can from such incidents, and I will say that I'm extremely grateful this injury isn't worse - from what I've read, it could have been much more serious. I've skated by with some close calls before and I doubt that this will be my last. Despite all of this, I consider this week to be a really good one overall - everything that happened before that awful moment was beautiful and magical. Looking forward to more of that once I can move around outside more. Cheers for now, lovely creatures, if any of you are out there.
The next morning (Wednesday), I woke up in a considerable amount of pain. I started putting ice on my knee, taking painkillers, but nothing really seemed to be working. I was afraid to stand, even on one leg, because both of my knees felt so insecure. My right knee felt weak and my left knee, the dislocated one, felt, well...slippery. I was terrified it was going to dislocate again. That day I tried to make it out of the house, to go to a show, to prove to myself that I felt okay, but ultimately I'm glad I didn't go - I think I would be much worse off for it now. Today, thanks to three days of rest, a borrowed knee brace, and a borrowed walking stick, I am feeling stronger and in better spirits. I got up and was able to shower and clean my room today with no difficulties. I still have a couple more days before I have to go back to work, and I plan to continue relaxing and healing while I can.
This is the short of the story, and though it may not seem like a particularly horrible experience to some (and indeed, it ranks pretty low on the scale of traumatizing injuries), for me it has brought with it the memory of a similar, much longer story. Though this memory grows older every year it does not grow any less dim, and try as I might to lock it into a tiny room at the back of my mind, it will not stay there.
Many of my Austin friends may not know that when I was 17 (around 2006 or so), I was diagnosed with melanoma, or skin cancer. A few months prior to the diagnosis, I had gone to the doctor to have a weird bump on my right hand examined. The doctor assured me that it was probably nothing, but that she would remove it. She removed it at the base, but a few weeks later, it grew back. This time, I was anesthetized and taken into surgery, where someone dug the deep roots of this weird alien thing out of my hand. As things progressed after that first surgery, it became apparent that what I had been told was "nothing" was, in fact, a cause for concern. Shortly thereafter, a second surgery, to remove two lymph nodes near the site and examine them for melanoma cells. Confirmed: melanoma was hanging out in my sentinel node. Then, a third surgery, to remove all of the lymph nodes in that area, in case there was more that they'd missed. It appeared that they didn't. They'd gotten it all. "Great!" I thought, "at least this is behind me now."
After I had healed from my third surgery, I was called into the oncology ward of the local children's hospital - as I was under 18, this was where I could go that my insurance would cover costs, though I was much older than most of the children there. I remember sitting in the waiting room, plastic toys all over the floor, coloring books on the walls, Dora the Explorer blaring from the TVs. I remember the pale, skinny children there, all wearing warm winter clothes despite the season and soft knitted hats over their little bald heads. That hospital will haunt my dreams forever. It was there that I was diagnosed with melanoma and moved onto an immunotherapy treatment called Interferon, there that I spent 5 days a week for a month receiving these staggeringly potent treatments, there that I felt like a heroin addict trapped in purgatory, trapped in a cold echoing room as I faded away, surrounded by children too cheerful to understand that they were dying, surrounded by nurses and doctors who were too friendly, too sympathetic; who acted as though nothing that happened there were out of the ordinary, like everybody had to deal with this kind of thing every day. Needless to say, it disturbed me.
The Interferon made me feel horrible, like I had the flu all the time, and the Benadryl I took to counter-act the nausea it also caused made me even more exhausted and delirious. I did a lot of sleeping, and when I wasn't sleeping I was only awake because I was in too much pain to sleep. If someone had offered me a pill to knock me out for that entire month of my life, I don't think I would have refused. I was 17, a senior in high school, and I was, effectively, bedridden. I can't remember how much school I missed but it must have been a massive amount. I'm amazed I even graduated. Those were extremely dark days for myself and my family, physically and emotionally trying, financially frustrating, and ultimately, uncertain.
What has been ringing in my ears the most these last few days as I've been laid up at home is the horrible familiar feeling of helplessness. No matter who you are, when you cannot take care of yourself, cannot even stand up to get a glass of water without causing yourself immense pain, it fucking sucks. To lie there on the couch and watch your friends come and go, riding bikes and swimming and drinking beer and walking around, to see that life continues with or without you, can be immensely depressing. I read somewhere recently that an alarmingly high percentage of people are terrified of being a burden to others - that is, being too sick, weak, old, etc. to function on their own. I wonder who all of these people are - have they, themselves, experienced this and fear that history may repeat itself? Or is the thought of being helpless simply so appalling to those who have never lived it that they would never wish it on their worst enemies?
This is something that I have grappled with throughout my life, and it took the aforementioned incident to humble me into realizing that, yes - I was really sick. I was in a lot of pain. I could not take care of myself and I needed help. My mother was an angel, always patient, loving, and helpful, and while at first I resisted the idea of someone assisting me with everything from eating to showering, eventually I had to surrender.
As humans, we have long childhoods and adolescences, and during those years we are taught the same thing in a million different ways: how to take care of ourselves. We are taught to be proud, brave, and strong. To accept help, to admit defeat is for the weak. I learned how to accept help. At the time, that lesson was a hard one to be learned, but once I did, I relaxed. I was more clear-headed. I stopped fighting myself and tried to focus on the positive. I like to think that it helped, maybe even just a little. The last few days, however, have been a constant struggle, and I am reminded all over again of how stubborn I can be, and then I remind myself of Seamus, gritting my teeth and digging my heels in, refusing to be moved or swayed. The constant pain in my knee has been a reminder of my limits and especially a reminder of my past. I have had to remember to be patient with myself, to ask for help when I need it, and above all, to rest and restore instead of trying to push through the pain. I've always been of the opposite mindset, maybe because of my history, and am usually determined to get back on my feet as soon as possible.
I'm not entirely certain what kind of conclusion I'm trying to come to here. I've spent the last three days indoors except for buying tuna at the gas station yesterday, so as you can probably imagine, I've been doing a lot of thinking. While I entirely disapprove of the Universe's choice to strangulate my leg doing something I love (dancing and listening to wonderful music), I do think that it's important to learn what we can from such incidents, and I will say that I'm extremely grateful this injury isn't worse - from what I've read, it could have been much more serious. I've skated by with some close calls before and I doubt that this will be my last. Despite all of this, I consider this week to be a really good one overall - everything that happened before that awful moment was beautiful and magical. Looking forward to more of that once I can move around outside more. Cheers for now, lovely creatures, if any of you are out there.
Monday, August 13, 2012
A Shifting Perspective
It was just today
The sun was shining on your face and in your eyes
and through your sadness
It warmed the hands you slid across me
Momentarily it blinded me,
I could not see
But it left me no less lost
And more alone than ever,
so you'd say
I'm hitching a ride down south
The river is pulling me from the sea
I'm searching for a man in a city of glass
Hopelessly waiting for the dawn to appear
Sad sapless storyteller songbird
Your secret's not so strange
Blow your fears into the wind,
like smoke on a ray of light
Don't forget your past
The full moon calls you by name
Your priorities are crooked
You must be fooling me
I swam through oceans of fog to be here
Crept through a breathing rainforest
Echoing your song in my head
Oh, it's only the night I dread
Uncertainty blooms in dark shades,
turning your dreams into nightmares
Creatures, monstrous creatures
Leviathans in the depths all around me
Rain is slanting through the redwoods,
falling softly on a dreary coast
Tentacles rise up from the bay
Rushing to greet my wandering feet
Murmurs of desire in the thick night air
I'm drowning all my sorrows in the Columbia
Selling my soul for gas fare
The sun was shining on your face and in your eyes
and through your sadness
It warmed the hands you slid across me
Momentarily it blinded me,
I could not see
But it left me no less lost
And more alone than ever,
so you'd say
I'm hitching a ride down south
The river is pulling me from the sea
I'm searching for a man in a city of glass
Hopelessly waiting for the dawn to appear
Sad sapless storyteller songbird
Your secret's not so strange
Blow your fears into the wind,
like smoke on a ray of light
Don't forget your past
The full moon calls you by name
Your priorities are crooked
You must be fooling me
I swam through oceans of fog to be here
Crept through a breathing rainforest
Echoing your song in my head
Oh, it's only the night I dread
Uncertainty blooms in dark shades,
turning your dreams into nightmares
Creatures, monstrous creatures
Leviathans in the depths all around me
Rain is slanting through the redwoods,
falling softly on a dreary coast
Tentacles rise up from the bay
Rushing to greet my wandering feet
Murmurs of desire in the thick night air
I'm drowning all my sorrows in the Columbia
Selling my soul for gas fare
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Eureka
A janky recording of my newest song, Eureka.
Soundcloud - Listen Here
My misty dreams of trees and wind
have been withered by the sun
It's to the mountains I must go,
Where the wild rivers run
By the sea, by the sea
shall my heart be free
Where the waves crash into the land
No more, no more will your memories haunt me
Where the night is as black as the sand
In a house made of stone
I will build a fire
While the rain whispers down
Your eyes, they are full of a strange desire
And the tide it is low, it is low
Will the winds sweep me there?
Will my sails be full?
My eyes full of water, my boots full of mud
I shall rest through the sweetest of seasons
A river, it runs through my blood
Soundcloud - Listen Here
My misty dreams of trees and wind
have been withered by the sun
It's to the mountains I must go,
Where the wild rivers run
By the sea, by the sea
shall my heart be free
Where the waves crash into the land
No more, no more will your memories haunt me
Where the night is as black as the sand
In a house made of stone
I will build a fire
While the rain whispers down
Your eyes, they are full of a strange desire
And the tide it is low, it is low
Will the winds sweep me there?
Will my sails be full?
My eyes full of water, my boots full of mud
I shall rest through the sweetest of seasons
A river, it runs through my blood
Summer Blues
Day after day, week after week: the same thing. Relentlessly hot days; so hot you'd have to wake up at 7 am to accomplish anything before the sun rises too high. Once the sun has settled into its spot at the top of the sky, it shines its brutal light down upon us until damn near 9 o'clock at night. What do we do on days like these? What is there to do besides swim, or hide out in a cool dark house and read the day away? We drink. This town has turned me into a drinker, goddamnit, and I don't even really enjoy being drunk. It's such an easy routine; an escape, I suppose: rise, eat, work, drink, sleep. Repeat. I am not one for monotony, in fact it drives me crazy, but as the summer wears on and temperatures soar ever higher, I feel numb to it. My body may be here, but my mind is not. In my head I'm living a completely different life in a place so far away. I have been selfish and sad and unfeeling and I'm afraid that I won't be able to change it.
I've been worrying a lot lately. I feel the winds of change picking up all around me, rustling through the leaves of the trees, rattling the dead dry stalks of the vines outside, the tendrils that withered and hardened as they were making their way up the fence. I desperately need to leave, though I just got back. Panic is setting in and there is no way out - at least not yet. I am trying to teach myself patience, but I feel restless and whiny like a child, and the idea of "next summer" seems a thousand miles away. I dread what will happen to me if I stay. The logical part of me knows that this town is not actively doing anything to me - that I am responsible for my own actions, my own choices, my own happiness - but still another part of me sees the city as an enormous, dark, malicious creature, mouth full of teeth grinning like a lunatic, mocking me. Tripping me up, trying to make me fail; tempting me, pickpocketing me, leading me blindfolded down unfamiliar roads. I know I am not the only person who feels this way, based on what I have heard from those around me. I'm tempted to say that this is a fairly common feeling for those who live in big cities. I can't imagine living in one any larger than where I am currently. 700,000 people and growing. This city is becoming so snug I feel like I could wear it as a hat.
I feel that I have not been fully present since I got back into town. After a beautiful, blissful two weeks on the road, travelling through some of the most beautiful country I have ever seen, upon returning home I chose instead to retreat back into those memories and ignore the swirl of strange things happening before me. I realize now that I am not truly happy here, and while I think it's healthy to have such a realization, the sharp truth of it touches me with an awful sadness. It's so difficult to connect all the dots throughout the years of your life. How could you have any idea how things will turn out on the other side? You're 19, you're in love, you're stuck in a suburban hellhole, and you make a decision. You pack up all your shit and fly a thousand miles across the country. You're hell-bent on something but you're not really sure what it is. It's so funny to me to look back on these moments, these events. I often feel like I'm three different people, representing my past, present, and future. My past self made a decision for her future self; she set the wheels in motion and let momentum take over. My past and present self are ever trying to please my future self. At what point does the future become the present? When can I stop building little empires for myself and be content to exist within them instead? The choices I have made thus far have brought me here, both physically and mentally, and for that I am grateful. But I am not doing what I set out to do, and I do not think that I could, at least not here and now. I am trying not to see an exit strategy as an escape. I am trying not to run away. I keep telling myself that I will not be able to focus or accomplish anything unless a change of scenery is in order. It is for my own good. I have done it before and I can surely do it again.
In my dreams I'm walking again through cool, thick forests, stands of ancient redwoods towering 300 feet in the air. I'm digging my toes into the black sand of a Northern California beach, delicate flowers and vines creeping their way across the driftwood strewn all along the shore. It's July, and I'm shivering in the three layers I'm dressed in. The highway at my back is long, seemingly endless, and threads its way through the gentle curves of the mountains and forests, along the coast, and back again, all the way up into Oregon. The mist is billowing off of the mountains, spilling down the slopes and settling low to the ground, where the wind spreads it so thin and wispy that it looks like steam is coming off of the land itself. I'm eating hot, thick clam chowder in a restaurant that looks like a cabin. I can hear the ocean from the table. My boots are wet from the humidity in the air and the dew in the grass I've been walking through all day. I'm standing on a huge cliff overlooking Thunder Rock, which sits silently in the Pacific Ocean, nestled among the cold, cold waves. This cliff is choked with foliage, a veritable rainforest of enormous trees, ferns, vines and moss. The wind is roaring in my ears, threatening to sweep me off of the rock if I'm not careful. Every step I take the view becomes more heart-breakingly beautiful, and I want to weep; I cannot find words nor thoughts to express myself. There is an aching silence inside me that is both peaceful and sinister at once. I feel like I am home, in an ancient, primordial, instinctual way. The blood runs through my veins as the rivers flow towards the sea. I imagine that I am the first person to ever gaze on this shoreline, and it is easy to do all alone up there, with no sign of civilization for miles around. Never again do I want anything less than these things for myself. I have bathed in the light of the cold northern sun, and every fibre of my being longs to be back again.
I've been worrying a lot lately. I feel the winds of change picking up all around me, rustling through the leaves of the trees, rattling the dead dry stalks of the vines outside, the tendrils that withered and hardened as they were making their way up the fence. I desperately need to leave, though I just got back. Panic is setting in and there is no way out - at least not yet. I am trying to teach myself patience, but I feel restless and whiny like a child, and the idea of "next summer" seems a thousand miles away. I dread what will happen to me if I stay. The logical part of me knows that this town is not actively doing anything to me - that I am responsible for my own actions, my own choices, my own happiness - but still another part of me sees the city as an enormous, dark, malicious creature, mouth full of teeth grinning like a lunatic, mocking me. Tripping me up, trying to make me fail; tempting me, pickpocketing me, leading me blindfolded down unfamiliar roads. I know I am not the only person who feels this way, based on what I have heard from those around me. I'm tempted to say that this is a fairly common feeling for those who live in big cities. I can't imagine living in one any larger than where I am currently. 700,000 people and growing. This city is becoming so snug I feel like I could wear it as a hat.
I feel that I have not been fully present since I got back into town. After a beautiful, blissful two weeks on the road, travelling through some of the most beautiful country I have ever seen, upon returning home I chose instead to retreat back into those memories and ignore the swirl of strange things happening before me. I realize now that I am not truly happy here, and while I think it's healthy to have such a realization, the sharp truth of it touches me with an awful sadness. It's so difficult to connect all the dots throughout the years of your life. How could you have any idea how things will turn out on the other side? You're 19, you're in love, you're stuck in a suburban hellhole, and you make a decision. You pack up all your shit and fly a thousand miles across the country. You're hell-bent on something but you're not really sure what it is. It's so funny to me to look back on these moments, these events. I often feel like I'm three different people, representing my past, present, and future. My past self made a decision for her future self; she set the wheels in motion and let momentum take over. My past and present self are ever trying to please my future self. At what point does the future become the present? When can I stop building little empires for myself and be content to exist within them instead? The choices I have made thus far have brought me here, both physically and mentally, and for that I am grateful. But I am not doing what I set out to do, and I do not think that I could, at least not here and now. I am trying not to see an exit strategy as an escape. I am trying not to run away. I keep telling myself that I will not be able to focus or accomplish anything unless a change of scenery is in order. It is for my own good. I have done it before and I can surely do it again.
In my dreams I'm walking again through cool, thick forests, stands of ancient redwoods towering 300 feet in the air. I'm digging my toes into the black sand of a Northern California beach, delicate flowers and vines creeping their way across the driftwood strewn all along the shore. It's July, and I'm shivering in the three layers I'm dressed in. The highway at my back is long, seemingly endless, and threads its way through the gentle curves of the mountains and forests, along the coast, and back again, all the way up into Oregon. The mist is billowing off of the mountains, spilling down the slopes and settling low to the ground, where the wind spreads it so thin and wispy that it looks like steam is coming off of the land itself. I'm eating hot, thick clam chowder in a restaurant that looks like a cabin. I can hear the ocean from the table. My boots are wet from the humidity in the air and the dew in the grass I've been walking through all day. I'm standing on a huge cliff overlooking Thunder Rock, which sits silently in the Pacific Ocean, nestled among the cold, cold waves. This cliff is choked with foliage, a veritable rainforest of enormous trees, ferns, vines and moss. The wind is roaring in my ears, threatening to sweep me off of the rock if I'm not careful. Every step I take the view becomes more heart-breakingly beautiful, and I want to weep; I cannot find words nor thoughts to express myself. There is an aching silence inside me that is both peaceful and sinister at once. I feel like I am home, in an ancient, primordial, instinctual way. The blood runs through my veins as the rivers flow towards the sea. I imagine that I am the first person to ever gaze on this shoreline, and it is easy to do all alone up there, with no sign of civilization for miles around. Never again do I want anything less than these things for myself. I have bathed in the light of the cold northern sun, and every fibre of my being longs to be back again.
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