February takes me to the sea: Quisisana (kwee-sea-saanaa) bay. Memories rise above me and crash down too quickly to catch each one, bathe in their spew individually.
Looking at the projection in class, my eyes flash images of different times, merged together. The images, of course, have nothing to do with the lecture, but sight works in mysterious ways.
I attempt making a list, falling quite short of Proust but bearing him in mind nonetheless.
Four years old - younger, probably? - throwing up in a bucket at my parents' main shop at the Preluna hotel.
The vet, whose name I cannot remember - she used to dance ballet, and I was in my pink Tanya Bayona leotard - was standing on one end of the bucket looking down endearingly.
The embarrassment I felt was palpable: A hot rock against my back, prompting me to feel even more ill. She was tall and gracious, and I wanted to become a vet.
I wanted to become a better ballerina. Outside the waves rose high above the bastions, they swooped over the promenade, across the road and smashed against our closed door.
All I could think about were her huskies, eyes bluer than I had ever seen.
Twenty-one years old - the sea turning black and devouring the sun with it. We bought expensive beer and sat by the beach. You babbled on, as you always did.
Probably about Rococo in contrast to the modernist period. My eyes, as always, were drawn to your hands, even more so to your fingernails. Well-groomed, not chomped down. Heavily ridged, though.
And wide; so wide they seemed to stretch out like the coast before us, the ridges forming waves, the cuticle a frothy spew.
I look up and you vanish. We no longer speak.
A merge: various ages, always the same vision. The same melancholy, but hopeful, feeling. I have always admired the power of water. It cleanses, it nourishes and it kills.
It smacks harder than a disappointed mother, slams you more violently than a drunken father.
But on the days that it is calm, it caresses and embraces and you float safely and serenely, salt sealing your innermost wounds.
The eyes are the sea in that they take in and they expel. With a language of their own, they inform and are informed.
As we rest, or try to focus on the fresh and the new, or lay awake in the pitchblackearlyhours of daynight, the eyes awaken.
They stimulate themselves, and carry us off to memories hidden under chasmic cliffs, forgotten alleys.