Once upon a time there was a girl, and she believed she was special. She read pulp romance novels her grandma would give her, and read Gone with the Wind so many times that she could recite the entire first page. She stayed up late each night watching the stars spin in the heavens and drawing charcoal pictures of the dancing moon. During the day she would stand out by the street, tracing patterns in the gravel with the toe of her shoe and feeling the wind whip her hair, and then write mediocre angst filled poetry about the seldom-overcast California sky. She was waiting.
What she was waiting for was unknown, but the hollow place sought filling. She began to feast upon life, trying all things to see what might fit neatly in that hollow place under her heart. Rebellion roared up on a motorcycle and she thought she might try that on for size. Sunsets and road trips and late nights, chased with great gulps of decadence and paintings and sleeping on sandy beaches far from home became woven into the fabric of who she was. She learned to be fearless; the tides might shift the sands under her feet, but that same tide brought more, and the waves were outside of time, unending. Trust the waves, trust the shifting sand to be replaced by new sand. The whipping winds on the outside were nothing compared to the gales within.
Then came the season of quiet in her heart. Enough had been wrested from life that the hollow spot seemed full. But the waves, always being waves, were taking tiny grains of sand– before she had felt the bounty, the erosion had already begun. She had forgotten what the sea taught her, in her complacency and comfort. The only constant is change, and the waves will roll.