A small winding river flowing on the ground, her life had passed away. In the next moment, the ocean magically gushed over her and her whole space. She was alive, revived within a few seconds. Though the clock measuring these seconds had been suspended. All sound disappeared. She was alone, akin to a garden with nothing in bloom.
She stood here, her soft floppy hair over her eyes. Her father stood next to her, arms solidly straight and unmoving, relaxing wholly around her tiredness, her shell blinding his ability to see the carcass. They were bound by embrace. Her heart suddenly burst into every colour, twinkling light – sunshine and rain. The kitchen table was the driest place under light. Their attention was caught by this light, and both decided to sit at the smooth wooden surface painted by light without source.
At least the table was smooth now. Many lifetimes had lived here over years. Any fade and lines of wear could only be noticed in the dark of night. A global vision of world began to slowly spin in her mind’s eye. Travels, both made of theoretical wonder and photographs taken without creation of a camera appeared with the most serene colours. Journeys from times together. These few years felt like time which could never be divided. They talked at this table for a while, and over several long conversations, she realised then that she could not be alone, as hard as she tried. Moments of loneliness are never hidden, and they sometimes feel as painful as a wound from the worst fall in the fiercest of places – the ones she tries her hardest not to ever remember.
(Image credit: Water Waves Sea – Free photo on Pixabay)