Dear Stranger,
I am writing from a high cliff above the sea.
The horizon is so wide it almost feels cruel. The water goes on without asking anything of me, and the sky has turned the pink of a padparadscha stone—soft, expensive, impossible to keep.
There is a blessing in being alone. No one interrupts the silence. No one asks you to become smaller, kinder, easier to understand.
There is a curse in it too.
Perhaps you know this. Perhaps you have known it for years.
I was going to complain more, but the wind has just touched my face, very gently, as though I were something worth consoling.
I took a photograph for you.
It cannot hold the salt, or the cold, or the sound of the waves below. But perhaps it caught enough.
For a moment, dear stranger, you were here with me.
Anonymous