I struggle to capture this moment. Somehow, words just don’t seem to fit the picture. There aren’t any syllables that I can utter to paint this scene so that you can understand what’s going through my mind. How do I make you connect to me–to my feelings? How can I explain the way my heart beats and how the pounding drum can be heard for miles within my soul? How do I tell you about all the music that my ears hear; the symphonies that blend with the whispers of the wind; a sanction of which flutes cannot compare to; and the singing of birds whose echo could be heard from branch to sea? For its blue and white sail, arched ever so slightly, now fills me with a serenity that I can’t explain. Its body glides peacefully and effortlessly across the bay of polished glass; and as I study its form from where I’m sitting, less than a quarter of a mile away, behind the wheel of my two-seater pickup, I close my eyes and feel its freedom.
A seagull suddenly lands on the rocks, and it’s obstructing my view; his yellow beak chomping on bread that was tossed by an elderly couple standing a few feet away. He finished what he had and then ruffled his feathers in one voluntary shudder, turning his head in all directions looking for something more to eat. He finally flew away, now leaving an open space where I could see a parade of boats. Where they came from baffles me because only minutes before, I was gazing at one single sail, and now my quiet haven has turned into a sea of mooring rights.
I struggle to tell you this, searching for the right words, when a car pulls up next to me sporting three zealous teenagers talking loudly about how they almost fell off the rocks while fishing; and I lose track of what I’m thinking.
I have to admit that I’m amused as they chatter their mumbled dialogue, not being able to fully decipher the meaning of their conversation between their laughter and their yo’z. And I become distracted, once again, and wonder why I came here in the first place when I could be behind the hedgerows of lost time; my solitary confinement of silence and magical freedom.
An old man struts by wearing a black and white speedo bikini, his sagging, tanned leather skin shines from suntan oil. His head boasts beads of sweat; like stars in the night they glisten, and I wonder what will happen to me when I get to be his age–if I ever do.
Could any moment in space be as peaceful as it is now? Even with the bustle that’s happening around me, I can manage to remain in my little world–the only place where I’m at peace and where nothing matters. I know that my comfort awaits me behind the hedgerows.
The first sail boat that I had seen is now coming back, and its curved stance dots the shoreline like a graceful ballerina who is doing a pirouette–never tipping, never wavering; it glides like a seagull riding a thermal, effortlessly; just moving with the world; existing the way it should.
Behind the hedgerow is where my desire comes to fruition. My thoughts have no bars holding them back. I climb the steps to the heights of my dreams, where I sit for hours in my tower, gazing over the sea and its endless promise to never leave me. Gin Lane is perched splendidly on the highest of dunes; an ethereal castle of infinite rooms; where my soul walks corridors that are endless, searching for the one truth that exists.