“Everything wearies me, including what doesn’t weary me. My happiness is as painful as my pain.”
– Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

Peer over the white-chalk cliffs.
Smooth salt waves of air
Rush your skin. You are in the haven
Of stopped time: an irreplaceable
Piece of chalk fallen, temporarily,
To the shore by Fate.

See yourself from above,
The delicate splinters of your
Being seeking glue, seeking
A nook to sleep in. There’s no
Rain, yet you feel it coming.

Each demand, however small,
Each clawing expectation flutters
Out of reach over the edge. You
Try to grasp as toes hang
Over empty air, as bird-swell distracts
With chaos through the mangroves.
Where to look?
Where to settle?
Eyes latch too close by,
Losing sight of the bright expanding sea.

Quiet now. The chalk draws its
Name on shale stone and disappears.
Not gone, not forever. Just slipping
Into the shallows for a while among
Kelp and jellyfish to hide. It’s there —
You, reflecting — light and memories
Of the cliff you collapsed from,
Untying one wave of pain after another.

Time to look around. Take in.
Understand. Erase.
When you’re ready, the sea
Will bear you gently back to shore.