Huge moments of surprise, that leave you wrecked.
The wreckers, on the old, black, Cornish, rocks (when there was no moonlight, and hard storms pushed the waves and winds to treachery) would light their lamps to lure the ships ashore. And ships, who thought that they were safe, and lights were there to guide them home, would run aground, all hands lost and stolen by the cold sea.
To share the good times is to share the bad timеs. To share the joy in the finе-wine-times, is to drink the wine down to the bottom of the glass, where things are bitter. I will not ask for any glass to pass from me. There are no accidents (or possibly there are. But things happen because of their nature. And there is no arguing with Nature. For she is wise, and innocent, and cruel. And rage and hurt and pain and blood are hers).
So we build rituals of mourning and acceptance, to walk us through the nights of tears and pain. But Nature lost a daughter, who remains six seeds of pomegranate dead today.
Three things I send you. First I send these words, that you may use them as a pool of ink, to see yourself reflected, or see another in. To see far-away things, so you do not forget to dream. And then I send you pain, a small pain to whisper to your pain and keep it company. And last, I send a smile, that it might serve you well. And you may hold it in a time when smiles are scarce.
Remembering the moonlight on the water.