Love, War, and the Sighing Horizon

Between England’s storms and Europe’s promise, I drift, half-broken, half-laughing. The sea growls beneath me, Camus at my side, solitude’s teeth pressing where love once lived.

It is Friday, September the fifth, and as I open my eyes, the sun is rising, and the entire room I am at along with my bunker bed is quite wobbly. Just yesterday, I woke in a stable super king-sized bed in downtown London, where I was roused by the storm battering against the Victorian window, water sneaking in through the crack of shattered glass. Now I am on a ferry to mainland Europe, a voyage of three days. The ocean doesn’t whisper here; it growls.

The cabin is narrow, a monk’s cell disguised as hospitality. A top bunk above me, another below, a tiny window pretending to be generous but framing only the grey-blue pulse of the sea. I laugh to myself, Londoners pay thousands for minimalist boutique hotels that offer less charm. At least here, the swaying bed comes with a free reminder that you are mortal.

I am alone. Or rather, not alone but always in-between. Friends call, lovers write, some care enough to ask where are you now? Others simply vanish. Love and war reporting never coh…