Time and time again, the Temptress is drawn forth to the beckoning of the perpetual ocean, the touch of the waves and the brine as it lashes against the sinew of the long, akin to a deer, pillars, the kiss of the wind and the song in which it sings. Time and time again, the Temptress is drawn forth to the sunset on the waves, and time and time again,
she stays to see it rise, sleepless and dreamless amidst the lash of the waves.
If one would pay attention to the knees of her pillars, it would become ever so clear that they have grown raw and angered with the touch of the salty waves, a sickening habit in which the Temptress is unable to pause, to cease, addicted to the way the wave's sing and the way they attempt to draw her forth into the unknown, and one day, one day she may go with them, follow them out until she can no longer swim, and allow the nymph's to drag her underneath the surface, the sirens to laugh and giggle and allow her to see that which none has seen before.
And one day, the Temptress may go so far out into the sea, that she can no longer return, one day, she may never be seen again, caressed by the somber depths of the grasp of the ocean.

She has no clear reason, no undeniable truth that she can place forth to state why she cannot refuse the call of the tides, she has no reason for why she must come to them when the wind screams within her harks and she follows it's cries to this place, she is logical and reasonable by nature and this does not make sense to her.
It perplexes her, unsettles and embarrasses her (but she does not feel embarrassment, does she? a entirely mortal reaction), and yet is is here that she finds peace, a lull in the mind of the insane.
And so she goes forth, across grains of the tiniest sands, until dainty hooves meet the froth of the sea and it gathers up around her apparel and soaks her to the core as she goes further, and further, until it is up to her bosom, deeper then she has gone before.
Goosebumps grow across charcoal sinew as the glacial chill of the sea leaves her skin feeling raw and burning, and the only sound is the noise of seagulls and the lap of the waves, the wind in her harks and the only two feelings are the bitter chill and the pervading warmth of the rising sun.
The chatters of her mind fade into quietude.

And she is gone to the world, if for a minuscule amount of time.
Time never waits. Not for a God, not for a mortal.

All one can do is accept it: All will fade away in time. Memories. Bruises.
Those whom you love.

It leaves behind it nothing.
Except you. It often leaves you, and takes with it another.

And then all you can do is scream.


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