quelonios, unembittered.

(My favourite project, despite the thievery.)

Dirt constantly under finger nails from so much scratching, so much digging in the weeds. So much sand and salt expelling from pores, always. It`s hard to feel clean anywhere here, tangled up in the mangrove of wetlands. It`s sickly sticky, sour from the sweat. Try to clean it, wash it all away but it`s already permeated. Already a part of that intangible thing that will become the new you, somehow.

Tired, constantly, despite the hours upon hours of attempted sleep on those rough wooden slats and that slight piece of foam that presses into your one sore hip sharply. Struggling to stay asleep under that fallen mosquito net while the sea crashes deep just over yonder and small Spanish voices speak and poach turtle eggs down by the break.

It´s painfully beautiful on that island, lead to by endless water ways with uprooted trees guarding secrets and making cages for all the things that creep in the dark. Shades of every green shine in the sun and are dotted by the spiky red flower who`s name I never know. When there is red here, it is exquisite, intangled in all the green.

Here, the ocean moves pale grey in every direction and makes awkward swimming, standing. Everything about it is an opposite to it`s sweet sister down the coast that sways slowly with white sands and cristalline green waves.

At night the sea creatures crawl upon the sand like ancient things. Those leatherbacks, heaving and hawling all of themselves out of the surf to nest. They labour over the sand, digging into it for ages. Making it perfect. Making it sweet. And when the work is done, 100 eggs lay in the coolness below. Hoping for new life... on that island called Quelonios.