Saltwater

by Jessica Andrews

As an adult, it feels liberating to name things; to push them out of my body like long, sharp splinters and mould them into words.

I would like to have something to believe in, but it is difficult. Everything my generation was promised got blown away like clouds of smoke curling from the ends of cigarettes in the mouths of bankers and politicians. It is hard not to be cynical and critical of everything, and yet perhaps there is an opening, too. When the present begins to fracture, there is room for the future to be written.

‘Don’t you ever feel guilty?’ I ask him. ‘I mean, it’s beautiful here. Don’t you ever feel bad for wanting something more?’