Scratch the Map

Oisìn looks forward and the ocean looks back at him.
This is his favourite spot, the stones are whiter and you can see the Skelligs, like rough diamonds set in the waters.

We walked almost two hours to get here, two hours of extensive, infinite moorland. My Tuscan sun is now too far to warm me up, but this rain does not fall sharp on my skin.
I can perceive the wind through the stones and through my hair, with its blinding force. And then the chilly thrills coming up my spine. I wonder if it is just me or if every person here wakes up with this feelings. I also wonder if there is any more enchanting meditation place.

I met him on Day 2, when we got to know all the other students. His parents organise the study experience every year in his minute picturesque village, and therefore he helps them there. I am still not sure if he studies, and I don’t know his age. I am not totally sure about his name either.
“You can call me Ocean” he said everytime that I vainly attempted my Gaelic. “Ocean, like the blue ocean”.

Up at the hilltop my heart beats faster. I admit my legs feel tired, but that is not all. There is something about what I am seeing that makes my heart feel strangely exposed, like if I were there stripped of everything.There is something about him that makes me look at my life as if I were not exploiting it as much as I could do. He is so disturbingly relaxed, so enviably serene. He has been telling me stories everyday and every evening, so beautiful that I would not care if they were made up.

I really try my best. “Oisìn”, and his blue eyes smiles.

The narrow path that lead us here was narrow and winding, surrounded by fairy-like green boundless lands. The fog has been with us at every step, she is these hills oldest friend.

He looks around to spot the smoothest stone, then we sit and he asks me to close my eyes and listen.
I soon realise we are surrounded by an ancient wise silence.

I pass between my fingers the Triquetra pendant I bought at the small shop in the village.
Spirit. Mind. Body.

The soul of the Irish land speaks clear and takes the shape of nature, so misty, so inspiring. So alive, so invigorating.

I open my eyes again, I glance at him but he is not there. Oisìn has gone down the cliff, left his clothes on the white stones and now he’s swimming in the ocean.