She moves in waves, like the ocean during the rising tide: volatile, moving all that try to touch her. Her convictions as strong as the storms that arise in the murky waters, clear of her intentions but blurred in the revealing of herself. Enigmatic yet transparent; a paradox all within itself. There are times that those who see her glimpse into her true being, as the sun shines on her waters, allowing those who venture forward to see all of what she holds and what she shall hold in life. Though she denies all parts of herself she cannot see or understand, she fears her own being, scared of her own incomprehensibility. Her laughter is as boisterous as the seagulls that pass by the shore, searching for the remnants of what she has thrown out of her being; her sadness as cold and devoid as the rain falling upon the abundance of water already existing, no escape from the sorrow for days. Those who have learned to love her have accepted all of who she was, is, and will ever be.
They will not fuckin’ move. They repaint, put down new carpeting and wallpaper and they move right back into the same fuckin’ house on the flood plain next to the river and then they wonder why grandma’s floating downstream with a parakeet on her head. Fourth time. Again. Fourth fuckin’ time.
I did not want to think about people. I wanted the trees, the scents and colours, the shifting shadows of the wood, which spoke a language I understood. I wished I could simply disappear in it, live like a bird or a fox through the winter, and leave the things I had glimpsed to resolve themselves without me.
She enjoys rain for its wetness, winter for its cold, summer for its heat. She loves rainbows as much for fading as for their brilliance. It is easy for her, she opens her heart and accepts everything.