by Jem Ashton
The brine flies scatter across the sand, making space for you. They let you into the water. Let your heavy footsteps sink into the wet ground. This cloud of flies sounds like waves. The waves are quiet. This body of water pushes you back towards land. Its force moves up your legs as you make your way slowly into its depth. The shallowness is astounding.
There’s an expanse ahead of you. Depending on the direction, it’s either literal or metaphorical. An expanse of water leading your eye beyond the horizon into the sky. Or the expanse of industry. A refinery that reminds you of the human reach - incalculably dangerous and infinite. Both of these infinities are embodied by you - a body of nature, a product of humankind. You’re right to want to be there and the water is right to reject you.
You’re home - this is where you came from - but you don’t belong here.
It’s only quiet because you haven’t made a noise. It’s in your nature to be a disturbance - why don’t you say something? Are you saving your voice to disturb the quiet somewhere else?