I spend each day on the same dream. An oyster in a shell hard with wrinkles happens upon me as I lie splayed on a rock, desperately trying to buckle in my knees and suck in my belly. I’m a pile of wet drowning in the ocean. I’m an open sore rubbed raw by the ocean’s salt. As the years pass, my colors wash away and I leech into the water. Fish swim by me and I’m not an oyster anymore. Without my shell, I’m just another slice of the ocean, floating without definition. Gray against gray. I hang out in the sea, and the sea hangs me on a hook to drip. I dream of an oyster with an impressive shell sidling up to me and smoothing his long membrane. He’d say, “Listen, lady. I’ve watched you hanging out with the ocean, losing yourself. I’m going to take you away. I’m going to take you to a place where no sun shines. No motes float. No algae grows. It’s just plain old black, baby. And no one will know that you don’t have a shell, that you’re losing your outline. No one will know that you don’t know what to hang on to, because baby, you’ll be hanging on to me. You can slip into my shell and gel right up against me. You can bleed into me, and I’ll carry you through life.”
This is what I’d dream about. An end to my formless floating with nowhere to attach myself, no way to move inside my outline. My whisper has a whisper, and I can’t be heard over the ocean’s roar.
Or maybe I’d just dream of seawater lapping over me. And the sun rising and setting. And light sweeping dust from the rocks.