Deirdre was dusty and neglected like an old book that was once a favorite. She was an old fairy tale, a familiar bed time story that was outgrown. In the mornings she would wake and feel the chains tugging at her insides, as she wondered what it was like to waste away. The simple absence of that thing she craved more than breath was enough that she'd taken to going to the dark shores with a bottle of white wine and a heavy cigarette. For long she had believed that the waves would always listen and each grain of sand swore that it loved her. The truth behind this was in question.

Some days she felt as vibrant as ever, but like an icy draft in winter she found herself visited by a chilling feeling that seemed to sneak past every fire. It would tempt her with fancies of solitude and untouchable independence, if only she would give up her desperate need for the ocean. The allure of never waking again with an aching to be near the salty air or to hear the whipping breeze could be seductive, for when she was far from the beaches parts of her spirit would wither. But the waters were her confidantes and life lines. Supposed autonomy was not worth hollow living.

She would always choose this precarious existence over isolated emancipation, but if the waves did not come round, then she would be surely find herself wrecked and in splintered pieces on these beaches.  

Her eyes began to grope the shores for a life vest.  Deirdre just wanted to be afloat at sea, embraced by the waters.