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  • It was cold that day.

    The color surface was grey, sea and sky were merely a shade apart. I carried a heavy load of questions, but the windows were blindfolded, the doors were mute.
  • Between the lines of gravel and wave something was written.

    I reluctantly moved closer, unable to make out anything but a single word in the blurred-out sentence: Buoy. The most beautiful word I know.

    I looked around, but there was no buoy to be seen, only boats and boulders. There must be more than this, I thought, there must be breath and voices, shouts and sighs, ropes and moorings, traces of hands.
  • The boats were disturbingly quiet, unwavering, paralyzed, ignorant of the call from the ocean. Some were weighed down by thoughts, like me, by loss, by regret.
  • I had questions. I asked, I waited.


    No sound, no movement, none but the silent weeping of the wind and the waves. I turned to leave.

    But then:
  • A fragile voice called out for me, an old, broken voice, a splash of color in the swells of grey. I have always been attentive to bright color.

    The grey substance of reality weighed heavily on the turquoise dreamer. He told me, under his breath, that the names of the shipwrecked were not to be spoken. The wounds had not yet healed.

    I understand, I whispered; my voice a breath of salt.

    Then the color brightened, as if the voicing of the pain had brought the sun out, and another color came shooting out from waves of rock:
  • A wide-eyed adventurer, at break-neck speed, so brave, so bright, but so brutally moored.
  • Stainlessly young and impatient, he kept tugging at the rope, ready to conquer the oceans.

    Like a sudden rush of blood through calcified veins, he was a lifesaver. A buoy.

    Comforted, I remained by his side for a while, seeking shelter in his warm shadow, encouraged by his zest for life.

    A low sunbeam briefly highlighted the link between mourning and mooring, before the sunset erased the fine line between apathy and acceptance.
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