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BY THE PRECEPTS OF HER PURITY
White sand. Her gaze traveled upwards, looking at the horizon. The Sun shone brightly in the West, settling between a few sheepish-looking clouds, warming her right cheek. As she jumped out of her boat the rust-striped mare looked around as if searching to find something to be intrigued by. There were more rocks here, more coral sticking out of the ocean scenery. They lay over the rocks like the blankets of sleeping children. Something in her wanted to touch them as they looked soft and stroke able. Then, there was a fleeting sensation that came with the vision of a picture-perfect day. ... But what am I looking for, what do I want?
The wakes pulled back again after having seen how far they could reach. Pinks and blues filled her vision behind the white of her eyelashes. The wind swept through her mane as she turned her face to look around, glancing back at the noise behind her. Here, Mr. Teatime was making a sound she could not describe. She murmured with a judging, questioning voice what he was doing but he did not seem to care. He simply sprang from the boat and ran off splashing to hide between the bigger and smaller rocks that lay scattered in her sight like dark bumps. She watched him awaiting his chance to lay his claws on a swarm of seagulls that had been curious enough to come looking at the pair since they had sailed into the nick of the west coast, but she quickly lost interest. Instead, she chained the boat to one of the rocks, and wandered off herself through a layer of salty water as well, leaving the vessel behind to throb along with the wakes.
She felt the Sun on her back as noon came around. The tiger mare sighed, then let herself fall in the permeated soil of the coast. She felt her body being sucked in by the sand as seawater enclosed her for a moment, then left her to claw its way back into its body. She watched the wakes; in their perfect sense of rhythm, they arched, rolled and, in the end, splashed limply on the sand as if the grace in which they moved did not really matter after all. She, at least, understood that way of thinking. The way the ocean worked was both passionate and bitter. It danced and it fought — it started wars, yet ended them with a peaceful embrace as if it had been worth the same. There was not enough to gain with grace to seek it out. It was not worth the frailty and there was no wisdom to be required from it, came with no sense of purpose.
She lay her head on the sand and neighed out another sigh as she relaxed her muscles. Now she was but another rock on the beach, she imagined therapeutically. Another shadow among shadows. Closing her eyes, she lay there pretending to be either flat or a random bump in the earth; thinking. At some point she realized it very clearly. (Truthfully, she had known already.) “There is nothing I want,” she said out loud, in a slight frustrated, concluding kind of way: A spoiled voice to her hauling self-awareness.
There was, of course, that one thing she was still looking for.
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