counting them, and he still arrives at the finale of ten fingers. once holding onto an illusion so grand that the man made it into a embedded shore spear suffocating the oxygen to the gills of the spinal column. extinguishing the furnace set ablaze by others before. now he breathes the fumes of lessons learned.

the same spell cast fishes for the greater mermaid among the schooling tuna and the bait fish. a solo soul scouring the seas for herself. a rock left vacant by an adventure swim westward into the depths of uncertainty. not yet catching the quick glimpses through the telescope, her presence is known through the vibrating ripples of the unified sea. she is near. here once again among the rocky coves past and future of home.

…he quickly pulls the massive net back into the small fishing boat and burns it.

“why have you stopped fishing sir? aren’t you trying to capture the feminine fish of yore?”

“oh my young cabin boy. what do you fear? that we won’t eat for a day? that she’ll escape again into the same turbulent turquoise waters that we venture out into, day in and day out?”

“I do sir, I do.”

“…and there lies the difference between filling your belly and feeding your soul. she is back home among the fish. among the fishermen. listen closely. that’s her song of freedom. of self. why capture the uncapturable when all you have do is is let her know that her song is heard?”