I found this oddly shaped piece of driftwood on the rocky shore and placed it in a crack between two stones where it traced a connection between the earth and the sky.
Standing by the water’s edge, mesmerised, the edges all seemed blurred. Do pebbles belong in the sea or on the land? Where does the horizon actually draw its line between sky and water? What story lies behind the journey of this flotsam on the beach? Just an insignificant tale of man’s propensity to litter and discard, or perhaps a tale of of shipwreck and heroism where life and death are thrown into their own sharp perspective? In that place where answers do not offer themselves readily, the questions seem strangely more acceptable, less agonising. The unknown, unfathomable but perfect.