The “...teenth” Day of Searching…...

It was the “...teenth” day of searching.

I searched for her in the thinning branches of the trees. I searched for her in the timid morning rays of the frightened sun. In the blankets of fog that refused to rise from the meadows. I searched for her in the raindrops that merged with the sea. In the reflection of a tear upon the mirror. I searched for her in the silk veil of night, in the breath of the wind. I sifted grains of sand through my fingers, half-believing I’d find her buried in the castles I’d built along the shore. I wandered quietly around every wooden post lining the coast. I climbed every mountain path. I waded through the cold water of the river. I looked up to the sky, hoping she might be carried away by a departing swallow.

It was the “...teenth” day of searching, and I was slowly losing hope of finding her. She had hidden herself so far, so deep from me that what began as a playful quest had turned into an exhausting journey through the wilderness of my everyday life.

It was the “...teenth” day of searching, and my lifted spirits were slowly replaced by a consuming longing. It tore at me from within, scattering the last drops of my strength in every direction, as if gifting the world what I no longer needed. My cup was emptying, and in that emptiness, longing found room to whirl — wildly, feverishly — like a dancer on a frantic stage. It was fueled by music coming from nowhere, loud and restless, while my eyes, weary from the road, searched not for melody, not for sound, but for silence.

It was the “...teenth” day of searching, and I began to stumble over every pebble in my path. Each dawn felt like an unavoidable punishment for my failure to find her. And she, cunning and elusive, had hidden herself where no path leads, where no ship sails, no bird flies — where words, feelings, and thoughts drown in emptiness.

It was the “...teenth” day of searching… And I was already walking beside her.

No longer searching — because I had realized I would find her only when she wished to be found. But she did not wish it. Because I cannot focus. Because I cannot call her. I have forgotten her name. I cannot feel her. I cannot hear her silence. I cannot touch her fragile presence with my thoughts. Because I am not yet ready to find her.

It was the “...teenth” day of searching…

And I walked with her — the barefoot goddess of the shore, searching for that state of being in which I might feel pure bliss.

Ah, that treacherous peace of mine — hiding from me in the deep corners of darkness, letting me wander through ravines of weariness and sorrow, never extending a hand to meet me until I can sense her with every goosebumped inch of my wind-touched skin.

And so I do not feel, do not see, do not hear.

I breathe in the salty seaside air as if it were inevitability itself, and that salt settles into my soul, leaving behind only the footprints of bare feet upon the sand.

It was the “...teenth” day of searching… And I walked within it, along the damp shore, into nothingness — where I painted mirages of the one I had searched for so long.