Salty fresh sea air permeates my senses. Wind brazes my skin in a sultry fierce fashion. The only lone sounds are of lapping waves and distant calls from the multitude of native Puffins. White specks flying gracefully, floating in figure eights. Few come billowing over the Northern cliff’s edge, mere feet from where I stand. While some remain lingering near their makeshift nests, nestled along the sharp crags.
Thoughts of longing accompany my unfocused gaze into the distance. Far away, yet not quite as far as the white interval, where sky and sea meet. A flood of memories consume me, one after another, overpowering me into an unmistakeable state of melancholy. I feel as though I’m in a purgatorial trance, reliving every loss and every pain and every last word I never could say.
Thoughts of longing accompany my unfocused gaze into the distance. Far away, yet not quite as far as the white interval, where sky and sea meet. A flood of memories consume me, one after another, overpowering me into an unmistakeable state of melancholy. I feel as though I’m in a purgatorial trance, reliving every loss and every pain and every last word I never could say.
Blinking for the first time in what seemed like hours, I wipe away the single tear that escaped from my eyes. There’s a powerful force at work here in Ireland, one of great reminiscence and sorrow. Alone I stand at the cliff’s edge, where one strong gust of wind could topple me over into a steep 400 foot dive, to the bottom of the rocky shores.
The time of day is just before sunset in early April, the chill of winter still thriving in the air and the tumult of tourism are at bay for a little while longer. A few families are visible in the distance, above the Southern band of cliffs, but are unheard from where I stand. I feel alone in solitude, at the mercy of my moody revel. I can’t explain what came over me, besides that I’m sure I’m not the first and I know I’m not the last to feel the euphoric onslaught of the past, here on this land.
Momentous, sovereign and cruel - three words that I would describe the Cliffs of Moher, by first sight. Although, judging by mere eye can not solely describe this powerful landscape. Esoteric and omniscient, perhaps. Ancestral forces may have been at work here today, or maybe it’s just a simple coincidence. Possibly it’s just my time to face what I’ve decisively ignored thus far, deep feelings of perdition with the result of edification.
(Photo by © Brandon Elijah Scott / Eye & Pen)
The time of day is just before sunset in early April, the chill of winter still thriving in the air and the tumult of tourism are at bay for a little while longer. A few families are visible in the distance, above the Southern band of cliffs, but are unheard from where I stand. I feel alone in solitude, at the mercy of my moody revel. I can’t explain what came over me, besides that I’m sure I’m not the first and I know I’m not the last to feel the euphoric onslaught of the past, here on this land.
Momentous, sovereign and cruel - three words that I would describe the Cliffs of Moher, by first sight. Although, judging by mere eye can not solely describe this powerful landscape. Esoteric and omniscient, perhaps. Ancestral forces may have been at work here today, or maybe it’s just a simple coincidence. Possibly it’s just my time to face what I’ve decisively ignored thus far, deep feelings of perdition with the result of edification.
(Photo by © Brandon Elijah Scott / Eye & Pen)
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