6:12

Six a. m., wake before sunrise and shoo the cockroaches out of the bathroom before we’ve even opened our eyes. I climb up the rickety structure and sit down at the edge of the roof, palm trees and birdsong in every direction. As I close my eyes and begin to breathe, a quiet, soft sun rises and washes me in smiles. The air is still. When I open my eyes, I don’t know how much later, it seems I am floating, a heart beats in my chest:  it bleeds and it bleeds but only for all the love it must share before it is done, it bleeds and bleeds but never runs dry.

I stood in the sea one day and let it run me over, let it drain me and restore me all in the same breath. This water which moves us forward, which always changes but only ever remains the same, it is unmovable, unbreakable, and always returns to itself. We dream of being the wave, of moving everything forward. But I am not content to be the wave.

I want to be the whole fucking ocean.