Overflowing emptiness

“She thought it might be good to drown in such a beautiful blue sea, with waves swallowing her whole as a deadly pale fish.”

It was a pretty beautiful day, the sky was clear, the weather was good, and the wooden sea-shore house of her looked like a tiny point in a desert from someone’s view, far away.

The pier was number 17. Just like the times she has passed living throughout life. She walked all the way to the pier, without any slippers on. Her feet were burning, and her head was up above the clouds. She couldn’t feel a thing. She couldn’t think about a single event in that moment, if I could describe it on my own way, she didn’t exist that moment. She wasn’t there. Her body was, but she wasn’t. She was far away from anywhere you may think, and no one could reach her out because she moved from a place to another in a second inside her mind, and it was quite impossible to know what was happening or where she could be in a certain moment.

 So she walked down the pier till the end. She thought about sitting there and watch that beautiful blue sea right under her burning feet. She still couldn’t feel a thing. The whole day passed by and she didn’t move a muscle. The clock was ticking. Her pale skin looked like a rare pearl dressed with the black night sky. There were no more burning feet. There was no more anything. And in a second, or two, she was cloaked with the waves. If you looked carefully, you could see the sea foam embracing her pale skin, and then a tiny black point sinking in the middle of nowhere. Is that what she was thinking about all day long? Is that what she was thinking all her life, until the final day? I don’t know.  But what makes me unsettled is exactly what she thought about that single bright day, which ended up in a dramatic scene of a tiny pale and fragile bird that lost her way home, and didn’t know where else to go, so she thought about the sea. Maybe down there looked calm enough than anywhere in life. Maybe down there looked better than life itself. I don’t know.