Writing. Culture. Politics. Wandering.
Low tide, earlier today.
Two people, feet sinking in wet sand with each one stirring slightly, undaring to look at something other than away. Seconds, minutes, time passing without counting. The only ticking that of a finger on the cover of a book. An invitation, a means of negotiating a surrender or apology – I do not know.
Opening the book was offered as a means towards opening for each other. Sand between toes, texture of a life left passing by, reading to each other left us together without having anything else to say. Required to softly hold each other, to resist imbalance on shifting sand and wave.
A story later, both sitting on the sand. Feet no longer firmly planted, entangled for something other than protection. Still a wall, by now one as far as the sea retreating. Hope of time shortening one distance, fear of it bringing back the wall.
Compromise of smiles. Dinner at our leisure, later, making effort to not pass by. I can but hope for tears, if any, different than those of pain. Let’s hope for laughter.
So yeah, en attendant le diner. I’ll just schedule today’s post. I trust that can be forgiven.
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