It was deep winter where I was some days ago, I can still feel my hands shaking from the bitter frost on that moonless beach, cupping flushed red purple fingers around little warmth of my breath. It did nothing to ease the sting in a throbbing pain. I keep at it like a prayer, trying, jaw slack, breathing through my mouth in a quiet rhythm within my spliced life, shoulders hunched bracing myself against the angry wind. And I stood just over there at the end of the world as phantom bells ring to remind the sea that it was time, my eyes closing lulled by the soft sounds of the waves. If I stayed still enough maybe I'd even disappear into a deep slumber, become an unholy jellyfish making sand angels, trying to get back home to see some familiar sights, be with other known jelly-fish. Somehow your steady little light, my candle in the wind, keeps me between waking and dying, steady in a sea of suffering and chaos like it was never more or less than it should be but just is. It's rare. How do I reconcile that?
Layered Fragments, Becoming Whole 