Relief

There is, perhaps, nothing and no one that can reach me here.

There's but three things in this place.
There's the Sun, and it sits before me.
There's the Sea, and she sits beneath me.
There's the Sky, and he floats above me.

This is invariably where I end up, when I'm not paying attention, and I float away.
I sit, a tiny island adrift and between three grand and endless things. And upon my lap sits a book that writes, and sometimes I write in.
Many times, I will open it. Many times, I can feel my innards recoil at what I read.
Sometimes, I'm afraid to open the book. It's the lens through which reality is bent. There are times when I can make it seem straight and true. And others, it warps, grows wide, grows distorted.

Sometimes, I will sit and draw in the book. The lines never come together coherently, but then again, neither has anything we've ever made.

And there is, in this place, now four things. For when I leave, the book remains.
It grows ever longer, and in this place, it becomes as a feeling does - beginning small and spreading outwards.

It grows, basking in the sun. Bathing in the sea. Witnessing the sky.
And it is like me when I write in it. Asleep, but somewhere else.