back to the sea

There's this.
Something about storms that bring the ocean into my house, the one I carry with me, the one that has rooms I don't even know about yet, the one that has rooms of memory and nostalgia and longing and hope, the one that holds children, dogs, lovers, and spaces for meals where you have to eat on the floor to be closer to the ancestors.
I am at the edges of the sea, and this is the place to be ending a year and starting another one, the edges of a ghost sea, the one that used to be here before the land rose up and made it look like a desert.  There's magic here, and ghosts here, and the whole place is made for ghosts, but it's also made for dancing.
The difference between our gods and theirs is that our gods like to eat, and like to dance.
Without dancing, without the drums, there is no way to look into the red eye of god.
And there's more than one hooded figure here with me, definitely more than one, and it seems like I should be believing by now that I don't have to enter into this next place alone, but I don't believe it, because it feels very much alone.  My feet are loose on the ground and my eyes are clear in the night wind and I can see all that I am supposed to see, and that's enough.
I don't understand the half of it, what that last year was all about, what the next year might mean, what anything that anyone told me recently might mean, I don't think I'm supposed to think about any of that very much.
This is the edges of the sea, and who knows what this means, or what happens here, I like the feeling of this wet wind in my lungs.

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