de l'encre au bout des doigts

She doesn't want to be here. On these rocks. Sitting still and letting the harsh wind slap her face. Tasting the salt on her lips, from her tears, or the sea, she doesn't know, it doesn't matter.

She doesn't care.

Her face betrays nothing. Never. She's there and she smiles and she lets her dry laugh out, people are around and yet they see nothing, she's there and she hurts, inside, somewhere, it's gotta hurt. but she can't feel a thing. Her mind hurts. Her body doesn't, and somehow that's unsettling. She doesn't like pain, who does really, but if only she could feel this sharp unbearable pain on her body, if she could localise where she needs repair, then she would feel sane. It's all in her mind, it's all a virtual game that she played and lost.

She's there. She watches the deep blue see grow dark under the dying sun. Soon there will be the night and the moon and the stars, and she will be at home. She IS at home here, on these rocks watching over the sea. They've been here forever, they watched the sea as they watched her grow while she came years after years, while she grew up climbing them, collecting the animals and insects that elected to live upon them. 

She comes back here and she's 5, she's 15, she's 25, she's 50 and she's 65. She was just born and she'll die soon. She never comes when she's happy. When she's happy, she's chasing butterflies, she's in love. She's getting married, she's a mother, a grand-mother, she's alive and in life. When she's happy the rocks exist in a part of her mind, she knows they are there and that suffices. It is when life is cruel to her, when life is unfair, when things are too hard to cope with that she comes. She comes and she used to cry, to shout, to scream. Alone, in the wind and lost in the sky as it joigned the sea. 

Nowadays she just sits. For hours. She doesn't move, because maybe, maybe if she sits still, maybe if she's quiet enough, she's disappear into the rocks, she'll become a cold silent thing watching over the sea. Watching over the time. 

Of course, there comes always the moment when she has to go home. She gets up and stretches, it's becoming harder over the years, her body doesn't cope with cold granite as well as it used to. With very slow and cautious steps, she walks the path in the ferns and ramble leading to the concrete road, and takes her time going back home. She will be back tomorrow, with her sadness and her life gone by. She will be back, hoping that it will be the last day that she has to, that life will finally choose between granting her happiness or complete peace.