Sometimes the ocean was calm, though. On those days she took her torch and walked accross the water to explore the otherwise unreachable caves under the cliffs and fill her bag with heaps of shining crystals.
At home they filled her room, sticking to her warm, dry walls the same way they had grown in the permanently wet, deep, dark caves. They were wispering to her, telling her stories all night long, stories they had learned from the mountains, from the stony crust of planet Earth itself: Earth, who had watched the humans for the longest time waiting for them to get a grip and finally create the happy world they dreamt of and that all of nature waited for.
In the mornings the sunlight glittering on her crystall walls in a thousand flashes of light would her up so joyfully that she'd jump out of her bed, storm to desk and start writing, writing up all the stories they had told her about, stories of old.
Today I wrote:
- just one page