The plushy sand enshrined my feet.
Sinking, soaking I felt alive. Did I know that seaweed could smell like caviar?
The Atlantic wind whipped my naked flesh. Exhilarating, excoriating.
Now rolling, riving, turning, thriving. I bathed in the beach.
I thought of burying my head in the sand. But that, of course, was already done.
Preserve the metaphor. Reject the reality.
Trot. Canter. Gallop. A Centaur. Crucified. Craving Resurrection.
Lungs bursting. Chest heaving. Nostrils flaring, capturing elusive air.
Reaching for the brooding shadow of Ben Bulben
This was the Seventh Strand. A myth made flesh. I had doubted the old men's tales. The selkies. The pulverised gold underfoot. The swirling eddies of enchanted air.
It insisted it existed. Screamed at me. Sucked me in. Briefly gave me hope.
But it was not an end. Nor a salvation. It was a means to an end. Its sorcery did not transform.
The pain of abandonment, betrayal was inescapably eviscerating.
The waves were calling. Thalassa extended her watery welcome.
It felt inevitable. Predetermined. The rocks should have stabbed my feet.
The icy tide should have stolen my breath. But there was no pain, no asphyxia.
Only the persisting pervasive emotional wrenching at the core of my soul.
Had the Seventh Strand failed or succeeded? Alea iacta est!
I submitted without a struggle. No last minute change of heart.
As the lethal water invaded and occupied my lungs I began to feel serene.
This was death. No bang. Barely a whimper. No! Not good enough!
I loudly cursed that Jezebel who callously robbed me of my will to live.
"May you rot in Hell, Kathleen!" An impotent howl.
Then it was over.
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Author Notes
This tragic fantasia is set on the mystical fabled Seventh Strand in
the glorious Yeats Country of Western Ireland. I holidayed nearby every summer as a child. My Irish cousins and I tried to find it on many occasions without success. Perhaps just as well.
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