My body - shell - sits on these waves. This body of water, constantly overlapping and melding into me. I feel it shape me, flowing into the thin layers of my skin and moulding my tired muscles. I let it. Whether it's crashing waves, chaotic and destructive; or quiet, still waters, I lay here. Letting the liquid handle me, but the eyes that see and the brain that thinks never truly change.
My shell sits on this chair. The walls are red muscle, beating at a languid pace. There's only a table, chair, and a mug sitting on the table. A liquid sits inside the mug - it's gotten cold though. These walls keep on beating, I'm used to it. There's no door or windows, or any form of life.
I'm lonely here. No matter where I go, no matter who I love, I'll always be lonely here.
by Anastasija Stradniece