They delineate the shoreline in a waving spine, steadfast in their salty acres – these homes I can hold in my hand. Architecture that was once submerged, they were born inside currents that pulsed turquoise and lavender, and grew behind an oceanic veil, cold and serene.
They tumble in the boiling surf, helpless in the blind physicality whose desire originated miles out at sea where winds stir the water into madness. It was a long journey, far from the depths where Neptune’s verdant singing embraced the watery world like the god’s muscular arms. They were far from the light that split into a labyrinth of prisms, from shadows that bloomed at the edge of the sunken earth.
When they were free of the ocean’s rough attentions, the glassy beach, reflecting seagulls and ships, beckoned. There they stretch like an untended necklace, a rope to mark the extent of the ocean’s appetite.
Their bleached, fossilized skin, made of sand and salt, was tattooed with rhythmic designs. Patterns leapt across a map of continents and followed a cartography of rivers carved into bone. Products of Nature’s boundless whimsy and creativity, they were the sum of her busy fingers, carving skeletons into cathedrals, sweeping stairways and twisted carousels.
When she opened her hand, she whispered their story into each pelagic coil, then scattered them across the green and pearl-dazzled landscape of the sea. And anyone who picked the shell up to hold it close would feel her silvery breath and hear her dreaming narration of an empire of fishes, coral grottos, drowning suns, and a world far beyond our grasp.