A/N: Well, this is just something that came upon me while sitting for too long in front of the computer a Friday evening. I don't really know where it came from, but I kind of like it. Usually, I prefer writing about the Lord of the Rings, but well….never scold your muses! *g*

Mhm, I would really like what you think about this piece, for it is something I hadn't tried before….

And, oh yes, I almost forgot, English is not my first language, so please forgive my mistakes…although I don't think there are many, because I had it corrected by someone whose English is better than mine.

Velvet tears of gray dreams

The Sea is eternal, some say.

Some may call her infinite, but I can tell you that there is only one truth about her.

And it is neither eternity nor infinity, and yet both.

She is a sister to the wind, a sister to the sky. And the three have been born before colors even thought of existing.

Now men walk her shores and they stare into her dark depths, trying to read her. But what can she tell, she who is neither eternal nor infinite?

I have listened and I have heard her voice. Maybe I am quieter than most, or maybe I just happened to be there when she felt she must tell of her story.

Whatever it was, I was chosen. But I know not if should feel glad about that. Too immense is her story and my mind is only human. We were not made for eternal words.

Yet I feel that I must try to pass on those words. Maybe they can be understood when more ears have perceived the sound of the waves.

And yes, it was the waves she first spoke of. The only things men are able to see when they look upon the water. Few have ever tried of finding the words in them, but all the Sea allowed herself to give were their own blurry images. They all have given up, have left the shores, and yet their hearts knew of the greater truth dwelling in the dark waters.

And I, who have not even been consciously seeking the words, have been revealed her story. Under the dark, starry roof of the black sky in a wintry night I was sitting among the stones which sang to her voice in cold tunes while she told me of the centuries, and of her secrets. Some of them I cannot even utter in words, they are just images the waves chose to show my human mind, because otherwise I would not understand.

But now I will not tarry any longer; the story wants to be passed on, the secrets want to be no longer secret. And you, maybe you are even interested in what the Sea decided to reveal in that night, while the trees were bent with the effort of bearing the snow covering their branches.

Yes, it was winter and it was the night of the old year turning into the new one; a magical night in many cultures, a night in which time seems to appear differently to any man, to some passing on more quickly, and slower to others. But few have told me of time stopping altogether, and that is what I believe in most.

The Sea, she told me amidst the sound of water rolling up the snowy bank, cradles the dead in a never-ending embrace. It cradles them in gray foam and shadowy clouds, caring for them. Wispy fog is their blanket, velvet water their pillow, and she carries them long after their souls have fled to the heavens. Their dreams come to be her truths, or maybe, she added, her truth has become their dreams, and they are only returned after they are no longer needed.

What would a man be without his dreams? And what would the Sea be without her truths? Her knowing of what was, and what is, and of what is to come? There would only be empty shells, and no one would listen to each other. Because that it is what is necessary to live, for both the Sea and men.

Have you ever come across water that seemed not to leap in joy when you chose to kneel at the grassy banks of the stream and just be quiet for some minutes?

Have you ever met a man who was not silenced by gray waves branding onto the shores, wetting his toes and whispering of distant coasts, of even more distant dreams?

I do not think so, she said, because I have never seen it otherwise, and I am older than you. I certainly am, since I was before the stones and even before stars. Now we are living in unity, but when they will be gone, I still will be there, waiting for a new world and new children  that will need dreams.

It is I who has once given truth to the stars, and yet I do not understand why men ask them instead of me.

It is then, when your dreams cry velvet tears.

The stars are not eternal, and even more so, they are far away. Too distant for men to ever reach them. I am here, but they do not ask me for counsel. Sometimes I am even being cursed for being cruel to men, but I do not sink ships – the wind does, and it is his right.

Men accurse me for taking their children, but I do not take them. I return them to where they came from, and they are welcomed in my embrace. It is only their bodies which float on my waves, and although men say that the bodies are only shells for their souls, they weep when a child returns to me. 

But soul is a different word for dream.

And the dreams are my truths; thus I do not take.

I have shared my truths in all the times that I lived, and these were long years, so do not try to understand, for you are too young. I have chosen you, because I saw age in your eyes, and age means wisdom, but even that simplicity is sometimes forgotten by men.

I, who does not need to sleep, am awake in the nights and often I listen to the cries of things being older than men, and they weep. They ask me for help or relieve, but although I can understand their grief, I will not help.

Maybe you have sometimes wondered why the world lets itself be so mutilated by your race; why it does not defend itself. But it is only I who can tell you the reason, and it is simple and yet difficult to understand.

Do you hear the stones singing to you while you are sitting amongst them? Do you hear the trees groaning with the weight of the snow?

Do you hear the stars whispering to each other in their tiny voices? Do you hear the water lapping against the shores, speaking?

These are things that will not change, not until it is chosen that this world's time has come to an end. Or maybe not until time will have lost its importance altogether.

Which of these two choices will once prove true, that I do not know, but else your future is my past, and thus I cannot help. Even I cannot change the past, for it has disappeared in the course of time and cannot be retained.

Do not speak now, man, for I can read your thoughts! You do not need to ask me if I will tell you of the future. I will not. Not in this age of the world, in which time still has a meaning for you. Maybe later, when past and present and future are one for you as well. But you do not need to understand that, I know that you cannot.

How can past and present and future be one, you ask. I assure you, it can. For I have once lived in such times, although time may be the wrong word here, but otherwise I could not tell you.

It was long before time itself was born, and even longer before your world appeared from the shadows. Yes, the shadows are old as well, yet not as old as I am. They indeed are young compared to me.

Once long ago there was only I, the Sea. I and my truths. And out of me the dreams came to life. The dreams which are your souls, and your bodies, and your breath.

You and I are one, and once you will understand that, little one. For now it is enough that you know.

I have now done what I felt I must do; I have passed on the Sea's story, telling you of death and time and life.

Maybe you will now think differently about the waves wetting your toes when you walk along the shores. Maybe you will think of the dreams that are actually truths, and maybe you will even hear a distant whisper when you are very quiet and the sea-gulls have ceased to cry for some stray moment.

Yes, I was chosen to know, but to understand may take a life-time, and not even the very wise have yet discovered the truths of the Sea with its infinite depths of gray water.

A/N: Did you like it? I really hope so! It would be great if you left a review to tell me of your opinion, be it good or bad.