I used to feel secure with the blue pin head hovering over my town: you are here, until I realised how absolutely it eclipsed me and felt at stuck as that pin. I started to think that if my town is no more than a pinprick on a map then what must I be, and I travelled as though the threads shooting off across the map might tether me to the world, stop me floating away with this feeling. But staring at it now I know that however many pins assure me that I have been here; however tangled the tapestry of thread becomes; I will have made no lasting mark outside of the worn-out map in my room.
Strangely the first thing she thinks of is the art gallery in her old town. The one she went to with him, early on, all nervous smiles and nervous silences, and the exhibit they wandered through. Dodging car parts suspended on strings at eye and hand and knee level, laying bare the mechanisms of a car in mid-air. It is as though someone has walked into that memory; into her life and cut those strings. Everything crashing to the floor.
I look at my feet, the space between my toes and empty space and the expanse of sea before the line where it meets the sky. I remember how ancient Scandinavians believed that the Aurora Borealis was the refection of shoals of herring, of their iridescent scales projecting a light show among the stars. Today the sea and sky bleed into one another, a continuous stretch of grey reflecting grey and I think of how everything is a muted grey to me lately; every sound like the buzz of static, and I want to take that step towards the horizon.