Exile

Sometimes, when I sit in the mid-morning sunlight, I forget that I am living on a completely different planet than that which I left one sudden morning, not long ago. Light bathes my cottage in a soft, serene glow, momentarily sweeping me into a sense of nostalgic security. Planes drone above and I jump, heart pounding, forever catapulted back into exile. In place of the usual horror, I am in solemn awe. Everything I owned on that other planet has been meticulously duplicated and transported here to my current abode. I see the same stack of books on the coffeetable, unfinished work threatening to tumble over the edge of the desk, every brushstroke of my paintings, three-month-old carpet that has barely lost the scent of glue. It is all the same, yet distant, alien and unknown.


The ocean knows; only when I avoid its restless churning can I stay in my familiar cocoon. One look at its neverending undulation reveals everything about this uneasy place. By sunset, the water is tinted dark crimson, coagulating into a sticky black mass as nightfall arrives. By morning, salt-stinging eyes discern its true nature: an infinity of tears, patiently waiting to be bottled.