Gasping, she emerges from a holy space. It is sure. The foaming white marks her last breath. The eruption of a settled sea signals its significance, the weight of flesh on bones effortlessly lifted back to life. What mystic exchanges occur below is unclear. As in all bodies, there are some depths too deep to know, whispered stories whose echoes only reach the surface that pull us closer to that uncharted abyss.
The current swept her down, the hushed song pulsed air into her once empty lungs, and she, driven by her own will, dove. Deeper and deeper still, until there would be no return to the surface. This was the place of rich exploration, of sense. There is a comfort in this darkness, knowing there will be an end.
What siren song that calls us below is sweeter than the shore. It is sure. She stands dripping, mascara running. Her feet touch the dry land and with each step, a flood.