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A summer baby always craves the light

Another invigorating dawn full of promise and light. Verity had battled a premenstrual migraine for two days now and she knew better than to go out on the boat with her family and the couple who one day, not too far from now, would take over the business. She often succumbed to her partner’s will. She was no pushover though, but rather she was enamoured with her newly found mental tranquility and no one, not even her partner’s all guns blazing attitude was going to come between her and her hard-won new best companion.

Ten knots of wind may not seem much to a seasoned sailor, but she knew better than to put herself through any experience on the water that flooded back into her consciousness the memories of terror on the Adriatic Sea, especially in front of friends whom she was trying to impress with her dexterity in that vast untameable wilderness. Besides, she had now grown accustomed to guaranteed lush days out on the turquoise waters, bronzed skin, toned tum and legs, a vision in a bikini, wine flowing, the feeling of the water lovingly caressing her skin without expecting a reaction from her; the gentle rocking of the boat as she laid on her side admiring other fit bodies whilst being admired. She was the queen of her castle on the waves; she had now learnt to control her presence at sea rather than the sea controlling her, and no one was going to rob her of that place she had earned with sweat, blood and tears, so many tears.

Choosing to stay at home was not easy feat however, as it forced her to face other demons. It had now been two months since she had last sat down to write anything, and this weighed heavily on her mind. She was fully aware that writing, like a muscle, has a memory and the more you do it, the better you get at it, the more seamless the outcome becomes. Verity was loyal to a fault, mainly loyal to her own self. She detested anything that had even the slightest whiff of betrayal or deceitfulness. Her craft was her hidden treasure and like precious stones, no imitation would do. Her gems could only be identified as hers if born out of a purifying fire; a long process of sieving out the impurities until the real beauty of her misunderstood soul emerged for all to see. The long spells of drought in her creativity were for her the honesty she needed to honour and let breathe in order to later on produce anything she deemed worth expressing and more importantly, reading.

Initiating a writing session was for her like opening Pandora’s box or walking into a cave full of mystery and revelation; a cave where one could get lost and be confronted with the scariest of sights or maybe one which let in the sunlight; where one could see themselves reflected on its pools of water and like Narcissus be transfixed by one’s own beauty. Verity had always considered herself to be rather conservative and measured but what most attracted her to the act of writing was its gambling nature; the possibility of coming away from it a richer being or feeling completely robbed of her most guarded secrets. She loved the thrill of it, the unpredictability of it, its edginess; the way it forced her to lose herself in those pages and to explore who she really was in a safe private space away from judgement and expectation.