The ocean is a healing rage. Medicinal fury, restorative wrath. I feel connected to the water, knowing it has mingled with the branches of my ancestry. We all wade in the same recycled substance, every life connected by what falls from the heavens. Water is a cyclical being, prone to temper tantrums, almost too easily offended. I, too, am turbulent. I live forever misunderstood. Maybe this is why, running haphazardly and barefoot into the deep, I am overcome by a coming-home sort of feeling, fully known, where I do not have to pretend I am anything but a buoyant body, calm at long last. The ocean understands. We speak the same mother tongue, back and forth in crashing waves, tender darkness.

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