The sea roars ahead of me, all foam and no bite. Well, it does bit a little. The water is cold as it slaps against my fetlocks, tugging at my tail so that black streams of diluted ink pour out like strange seaweeds. The sun is warm against my back and the pale sand behind me equally as nice to the touch - not overbearing as it has been.

This is not the first ocean I've seen. I remember the Moonlit Tides from Isilme, a place I dared to call home briefly. I'd thrown my creations into the sea boldly then, hoping in vain one might survive the rough waves and the endless blue. None ever did of course. I'd though back then it meant there was no hope. In think I realize now it just means ink is weaker than water. I can be foolish sometimes. Anger particularly makes one foolish. Sadness does too, the frailer brother to anger. I'm familiar with them both. They fill you up and make you feel strong in a certain way. Yet they're incredibly empty emotions. They provide little sustenance for growth and inevitably cripple.

I can see that for the first time now. I may not always be in this mindset, this clarity, but I'll cherish this epiphany and perhaps, just perhaps, if I keep it close enough to my heart, I'll remember the way I feel right now when I feel that anger or that sadness again. I'll remember how pointless those things are, how useless they are. Maybe, just maybe, I'll learn.
One can only hope for such things.

For now though, I'm content listening to the wind and the waves and watching the trails of ink on the damp sand of the shore.
I smile an honest smile, a thing of beauty on a face of such heavy despair.

This is what happens when you suffer and then are released from that suffering. My lack of speech remains, an eternal suffering I'll cope with, but in this period of relief from the heat and my temporary loss of drawing, I now have the ability for gratitude. For the first time in my life I can appreciate the absence of something terrible, because for the first time, something terrible is absent.

For the first time in a long time I don't dwell or mope or even introvert.
I don't think about the death of my parents.
I don't think about the lack of my voice.
I don't think about the capacity for cruelty in those so like me.
I don't think about the loss of my birthland.
I don't think about the death of so many.
I don't think about this shitty, dying planet and morality.
I don't think about the sun's rage just days ago.
I don't think about those strange girls who stole me.
And I definitely don't think about why my penis had been stiff every morning lately, swinging like a tree trunk between my legs and making it difficult to pee. A small annoyance compared to the others, but a constant one, and a new one that leads to constant aggravation.

I don't think about any of this as I look out at the blue field. I feel weightless and I smile and smile and smile.