It’s the closest sensation to not existing: floating. 

I wriggle my toes against the stones and face the sea. Brushes of grey, white and black colour the shore and peak in the curvature of my feet. Their smooth egg faces leaving hot powdered kisses in the crinkles of my soles. A body of blue breathes before me; with every loosened breath, its silk creases and ripples around the roots of my body. Seagulls’ feathered bellies sail above; humming between cotton smudges in the sky. Against the Sun’s thick honey which marinates my skin, I welcome the Sea – a crisp ring – who traces my ankles with my first step. Slowly trickling up along my legs; encircling my thighs, cinching my waist. It coats my shoulders and rests like a wavering string in the casted shadows of my jaw. Until I am floating. Floating on my back, with my palms peeled open and my heels freely bouncing. Weightless, bearing nothing but itself, my spine can uncoil along the expanding sea. Effortlessly straight, my body becomes a needle gliding to find North. My skin becomes patches of crisping cream fading into a blue canvas. My nose: a sail glinting white. My cheeks: two hills absorbing light. My head: a hollowed buoy unhinged from any anchor. A droplet. One droplet escapes to the dent of my belly-button; lingering in its basin. Crystals of salt cling onto my lashes like raindrops on strands of grass. The seagulls’ song is muffled by ruffled sheets around my ears. My thoughts are hushed by the lullaby of my breath. As my body goes numb the only sensation is the surface: a cold lace outlining my core, bordering the Sea that’s brisk below and the Sun that seethes above. As my body goes numb, my mind becomes a lavendered silence caressed by the murmur of my heart. Because when I am floating, it is the closest sensation to not existing. 

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