recorded
you find yourself at the edge of the water. the tide is out further than tides go. the island, which had only ever been a shape in the distance, has revealed a path of dark sand running out to it. people are walking along it without urgency. the path is wide enough for two.
you take off your shoes; you keep one in your hand. the sand is cold and firm and holds the shape of who came before. you walk. small fish lie in shallow pools, unmoved, and you understand they will be alright. as you go, the island grows; you cannot tell if it grows because you approach it, or because the dream has begun to take it seriously. there is a single house on it. a thin smoke comes from the chimney. it is not yet lit, in the way smoke is not yet lit before it begins.
halfway across, you stop. you understand that the path is not always offered, that walking out is the easier half, and that someone has already returned, in the time you were thinking. you look back at the harbour and at the small group still standing on the slipway. the light is not on. you decide to keep going. the island permits it.
recorded on waking · undated