the pictures don't make sense to anyone else.

the scene: a girl, sitting beach side, beside her shipwrecked faith on the edge of a lonely island.
her clothing: white, but tattered.
the ship is big and broken: jagged and unkempt; aged and weathered; dark, silent, and brooding.
the girl is near the water, but not close enough to touch the closest tide.

the scene: one lonely girl, on one lonely island.
her heart: alive, but battered.
the pain she feels is dark, silent, and brooding... but subtle enough to stay beneath.
she sits out by the water, to watch the ships go by.

the ships: one of every kind. Some are expansive, and some are quaint, but all are kept well as they sail around the water, past this waiting ship on the girl's (consenting) island. There are luxurious ships at sea, 18 floors high and just as wide; brimming with bubbling champagne, their decks are filled with women in furs and diamonds; their tables are surrounded by men who like to hear themselves. There are mid-sized ships, too,  made of steel and copper and cologne colored wood - polished and majestic, even with their humble size. The men that man these ships are deep voiced and broad shouldered and happy; but even in their jollity, they are ready to defend: they are muscle clad but fear driven. There are also small-sized ships sailing about the ocean, resembling simple structured houseboats. Families live here (family either by blood or other ties); these ships smell like Christmas dinner and living room fireplaces and warm, down-stuffed comforters.

the girl: knows each ship before it meets her vision.
the passengers: pause their songs and conversations only long enough to yell things to the waiting shoreline and its rusty inhabitant.
the girl: resents being told what a mess she is.
the passengers: never come to shore.

the families (the ones that smell like food and blankets and comfort) come the closest, but even still, will not drop their anchor. Instead, they slow the boat to show the girl the ways they spend their time.


"Do what we do!" they yell.


the strongmen on their iron ships sail the fastest; they may have physical strength but the destitution of the girl (a rags-not-riches audience) seems such a contrast to their own outward majesty that they paralyze their strength with silence. They close their mouths and avert their eyes and move the boats as quickly as they can through the water.

they say nothing.


the diamond ships and their blushing faces go the slowest, and stay in view the longest. The men debate the cause of such a wreck and the women search their brains for ways to hide it. Each suggestion, both for the cause and for the cover, are spoken loudly and with pride.

There are too many suggestions tumbling out at once; none are distinguished from the other.


This is the pattern: from sun rise to sun rise to sun rise (and set, to set, to set).
Our girl sits on her island, and awaits a pattern change.
while she waits, she notices the water (while trying to ignore the boats).
she looks for hope in nature;
the clouds are white, but scattered.

years
pass years
pass years

no pattern change:
one girl, alone on a lonely island
the crowd at sea, ignoring what they can.


sun rise,
midday
dusk


One solitary man comes this way upon the water.
One small wooden boat: paint chipped, salt soaked and tattered by the lengthy sea.
This man, this boat, comes beachside
To a lonely girl on a solitary island.

He pauses once at shore, and looks knowingly at the wreck beside the water.
He moves again, and pauses once more: to sit beside her.
He doesn't say much, just that he'll stay here until she's ready to Go.

sun set.
sun rise.
sun set.
sun rise.
years,
upon years,

upon years.


"Go where?" she asks.

A smile underneath the eyes of a man who has waited and walked and crossed oceans to hear her say these very words.

A hand in a hand, a reluctant step, and a man who calms the oceans with his voice.

One solitary boat, one Friend and a lonely girl, sailing away from that wreck on the island.



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