KvinnaMer

I wanted to believe people were galaxies. Instead, they turned out to be coastlines— always changing, always asking the waves to erase the evidence. Maybe that's why I loved the sea. Coral never pretended to be anything other than a slow miracle. Maybe that's why I kept collecting strange names, half-finished conversations, screenshots of sunsets, songs that sounded like rain through old headphones. Somewhere there's a version of me with salt in their hair and an impossible coral beard, laughing at the idea that growing older means becoming less wild. I hope they're right. I hope we're all just reefs, quietly becoming something beautiful enough to shelter each other.

There is a coastline that refuses to stay a coastline. It grows antlers of coral, braids salt into impossible colors, lets the tide borrow its name and never asks for it back. Somewhere beneath the water, an old beard catches the current— not with age, but with reefs learning how to become forests. Wildness is not loud here. It is patient. It is the slow insistence of an anemone opening at dusk, the red pulse of hidden things, the certainty that beauty does not apologize for taking strange shapes. The sea keeps inventing faces. One is made of barnacles, one of moonlight, one wears a beard bright enough to confuse passing fish into believing dawn has arrived early. If you followed it, you would not become lost. You would simply stop believing that maps were ever meant to describe places where coral dreams, where tides remember names, where the wild grows quietly, until even silence begins to bloom.