The Avatar

The wind blows my silky hair from face; I scratch the loose dirt away with my bare feet. The little round stones dig into my soft behind. I sit alone my arms crossed pulling my knees into my chest.

I sit alone on the edge of the cliff face, the long drop hardly softening the sound of crashing waves below. The setting sun slips closer to the water in front of me. The evening chill begins to freeze my toes. I pull the old horsehair blanket wrapped around me tight, my skin begins to itch against the roughened textile.

I ponder to myself what an avatar is. It’s a heart and soul given life, an opportunity to dance of its own free will. Passion is its life-force, like blood running through arteries that don’t exist. Passion needing to be controlled and kept in balance, or the avatar will cease to exist.

Too much, like haemorrhaging vein, passion spills out leaving a god almighty mess. Not enough, the avatar is starved of warmth and shrivels into a cold hearted bitch. A chirp of lone seagull breaks my downward stare. In that period within the final moments of the day, it hovers so skilfully in front of me. I am reminded that confidence is the fine line that divides insecurity from arrogance.

I walked that line with a pair of stilettos, I made people envious, and I made people smile. It required the right balance of passion and a meaningful way to release the excess. The evening star appears; the sun slips ever so closely to the darkening water and asks how will I ever find that again?