Big Dump

To come here you have to leave your car a couple of miles away and climb some rocks. It is an eerie place, and the stones are sharp and gray. This is, perhaps, where the sea is at its best; it is murky blue and it throws itself at the rocks as a mad dog at a piece of flesh, its mouth foaming. It is cold, and I am wearing my jacket, and yet some part of me tells me to take off my shoes and walk along these pointy rocks in the cold water. I always think that when I am here, but I have never done it; perhaps I will one day, and slip on these wet rocks, and the sea will carry me away.

I like to think that there is no end to it, or that the waters that touch this shore do not necessarily come from a well-know land. I like to think that they are messengers from somewhere, carrying ciphers that I will have to untangle. They lure me so, these waves, into their cold darkness, they are mediators between here and the unknown, they crash before me in a desperate attempt to reach me, and tug me, and swallow me, and have me.

I run back to the car, afraid of shadows pursuing me, I imagine their ghostly fingers trying to grab me, and I look back so many times that I stumble and trip. The sea is there, colliding with the sky, the wind moans and pushes against my chest; I get into the car as first big cold drops land on my face, and I promise myself to never return here, and yet I do.

________

This is a companion piece to the one that starts with "Stories of lost lovers, and happiness, and lovely choirs." Only now it is Thom's secret place.

Anyway, I should write some better stuff, and more relevant, too, so I will try to reverse a little and go back to more acceptable (and longer, dammit) fan-fiction. Allegedly.