I was stuck in a dream where my words became reality. She was but a hazy imagination, something I dreamt up, but soon my dreams became reality. She ran to the beach where the salt stuck to her skin and her words became the wind. Waves crashed down onto the sand in a violent and continuous action. The violence of repetition. Over and over and over and over again… She became one with the ocean as her body broke into a million little pieces of shell. Frantically, I began piecing the broken bits of shell back together, only to see my creation break down back into pieces of sand with the waves washing everything away.

She became a clammy dream as I woke up with sweat sticking to my skin. I could still feel and taste her salty kisses, kisses from a lover, but she was not with me. In the palm of my hand, I held a shell, broken into many pieces, but the shape still discernible. I held my lover in the palm of my hand, broken into a million little pieces. I blew a stinky breath over my palm, symbolising the crashing waves, and she turned into dust. I blew her away, into the void, into oblivion.

I still feel her salty kisses, the lover of the ocean, the ocean lover, the lover from the ocean. My hand itches with remembrance as I search for the broken pieces, to no avail. The ocean is still violently crashing down onto my lover, the million little pieces of shell, as I search for her figure that still eludes me. Hazy dreams that taste of the ocean, my lover a piece of a dream. I still wonder where she went…

This time I found the girl I could never write at the ocean, in between salty reality and a hazy dream. A mist of my memories clouded my judgement as I tried to take photographs of her. I share with you the product of my dream, and some other photographs of the beach. Why does the beach feel so isolated and solitary in the late afternoon, I sometimes wonder. Maybe it has to do with the way the sun falls onto the breaking waves…

In any case, please do enjoy these photographs.

Postscriptum, or Waking from the Dream

Waking from the dream, I am again thrown into a reality not of my choice. I feel the wind hit my face, the salty skin still present, the moment still a haze. I wake from my hazy dreams continually like the waves crashing on the beach. There is a sort of violence to the repetition, of the waves and of my waking up…

I hope that you enjoyed this series of photographs of the girl I could not write.

For now, happy photographing and keep well.

All of the photographs used in this post are my own, taken with my Nikon D300 and Tamron 300mm zoom lens or Nikkor 50mm lens. The musings and writings are also my own, albeit inspired by the girl and the hazy dream.