Flaw Salad

It is not the calm, serene scene you recall—the sprawling sands and expansive, lapping blue. You do not think in soft, low light and gentle cheek-strokes on a quiet Sunday morning. You are not struck by unmarred canvases of beige or subtle daffodil. 

But the cliffs! Jagged and bursting and rising from the sea, they chisel spaces in your mind and stay, a permanent attack. In high definition, you remember violence and passion and hands around necks in strained, climactic episodes. You stop and gasp at grotesque red strokes screaming injustices and agony and ache.

You do not desire an endless march of cloudless days. No, you hunger for a storm.