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Post by emile doisneau on Nov 21, 2011 20:45:40 GMT -8
 He was in the arms of a faceless beauty. They danced, lulled by the simplistic melodies of the awakening sea—taken from the darkness, and turned beneath the coy light of the moon. They swayed, and moved, ghosts on the rocky shore, graceful silhouettes against the velveteen canvas of the violet sky. She whispered against his ear, a weakening sensation pressed firmly against his resolve. 'Do you remember me?' He did not. She broke away, and spun and turned, her white dress floating on the weightless breath of the night. And he watched, stilled, and marveling as she twirled to the innocence that curved her coy smile and softly lit her gaze with a passionate reverie. She stared at him, and he stared back, and she enchanted him, moving her body against a sensual rhythm given by the waves at their feet, as her hair fell around her face wistfully. The horizon glowed with the promise of a new day, but they still lingered in the dawn of their memories. She closed her eyes, giggling, as her arms stretched out, grasping for the evasive embrace of the wind—the zealous exhale of the sea. Then she ceased to move at all and stood before him, searching his gaze, and smiling—playful and teasing as she touched his arm, and brushed a sweet, soft kiss on his lips. He closed his eyes, stilled and silent, and effortlessly, she vanished. He sought for her on the shore side, in the dark, but found only her dress—abandoned, and touched by the ravenous sea.
It was a reoccurring dream. It never did always end the same. Sometimes he found her, taken by the sea, with a serene smile as she swam naked in the waves. And sometimes, the darkness kept her hidden away, and he could only hear her laugh—a hauntingly ghostly melody held against the simplistic purr of the restless waters. Then he would wake, and find himself lost in the creases of his bed—alone. He didn't know her, and yet, the absence of her, whoever she was, left him with a yearning. But the dream was gone, and would remain in the shadows of his thoughts, until a new night, toyed with by desire and curiosity, would pull it back over his eyes. It remained evasive, coming and going as it pleased, ignoring the currents of his heart as the boyish fantasy of an angelic young lady, dancing with him, then falling to the waves, kept him entranced with the possibility of its identity as a memory, rather than a manifestation of a thought belonging to him alone. He kept it his secret—his dreams of his white maiden, dancing on the shores, and taking him to a place he knew. The awakened feeling was familiar—engraved in his pulse and abandoned, for his heart murmured hesitantly, as if forgetting the rhythm it once played, that made him dance and made her smile like so.
The early morning had been taken by a light frost that settled over the grass, and the hills, and his own breath; everything white, like her dress. He smiled to himself, the wooden figurine in his hand becoming more and more like the woman in his dream—not an exact resemblance, but rather, an elegant interpretation of her graceful silhouette. Delight in his eyes, and a patience in his hands, he was becoming more like his old self—the one that dreamed and explored, asking and wanting all the realities and all the fantasies that kept the world under a brilliant haze for the boyish curiosity of his restless soul. Ever since his return, something awakened in him; some knowledge that the dream began here, and held his heart against a romantic expectation. He could not place it, nor understand, and yet the feeling itself was pleasant; his curiosity rested for a while, taking in the brilliance of dreams and toying with their remnants in the reality he lived.
He had visited the shores on which they danced, and heard the murmur of the sea, and was tempted by the coy invitation of the waves; He had stood there, as he had in his dream, and watched—smiling boyishly before closing his eyes and holding himself against the cold breath of air that embraced his chest. He was home. The sea had imprinted upon him a promise, a claim to him, and as he stepped near its waters, it knew and welcomed him in again—his dull, indifferent breath now desperately clung, with a reborn passion, to the cold, fleeting air that swayed him.
But at this moment, he was not visiting the sea. He was sitting outside his grandfather's shed, on the short trunk of a chopped tree. His tools were scattered around him carelessly, as he picked up and exchanged them from time to time, perfecting the small, wooden figurine. Focused, he shaped her curves carefully. The grace, the elegance, lay against the dramatic arches of the wood and the woman seemed to cradle a secret close to her chest. He smiled, as his imagination toyed with her story—she was a lonely maiden, comforted by her dance, as the absence of her love twisted her to the frenzied melody of the vengeful sea; it kept her captive in its waves until her heart was satisfied, and the memories of a man she once knew, awakened in her a passion for another. But until then, she belonged to the sea alone, as she still danced on the shore at night, wishing for the moment when the man she once knew, would find her and replace the soft caress of the ocean against her skin, with his own.
"Sirène," he said, with a contented smile, coyly admiring his work.
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