I measure my breath against the tide – it rises and falls with my chest. Inhaling salty air my lungs fall into step, it slows my stride along the shingle beach. Rising and falling, waves stretch and retreat – the breath of the ocean. My shoulders fall.

Debris coughed up scatters along the tide line, paths of seaweed and mermaid purses – the insides of the beast sprawl at my feet, signs of another world with new life. Undulate and thornback rays populate this stretch of water – small black leathery pockets show their inhabitants have hatched and fled their nest. Two smaller pale brown egg cases with winding tendrils tell me there are cat sharks out there too. What else cannot be seen but leave traces for me to find? Balls of dog whelk egg cases bounce around in the wind, their empty shells evidencing the life then lived, both ends of a life cycle captured on the same patch of beach.

I can only imagine what lies beneath my breath, what activity there may be below the surface of symptoms and absence – restorative and regenerating or simply treading water? When the tide will turn remains unknown, For now I shall continue to breathe.

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