I called her Ceile.
Ceile (say-lay) was a character I created when I was young. She was a sort of Maia figure whose charge was the sea and sky. It was a pure place, a distant place. She was grey as the sea and grey as the sky. She was not permitted to cross over the coastline to the land; but that was fine, because she loved the open spaces beyond the land. She loved them, but she was sad. Always sad. And alone. She could only look on from a distance in silent wonder. I identified so strongly with Ceile that I used her name on my high school class ring and my first email address. But what exactly was I distant from? And what were my sky and sea?
Jump back to the summer after eigth grade. I sat typing furiously on the typewriter. Click click clack went the keys as I listened to Broadway musicals and quiet folk songs. I was typing a story. Not really a story...more of an account. An account about an early 20th century sailor and his fellow lookouts. Their portraits were on my wall. Their testimonies were well worn in my books. At my side, I had scrapbooks full of photographs, news reports, and email correspondence with international experts. But my heart wasn't there. It was across the sea at a lonely graveside. The place where the historian had placed a daffodil for me. For Mr. Fleet for me. I'd never met him, but my days were taken up with research and writing about him. Why? I don't know. But while my classmates were out working and playing, I was typing. And standing by his grave.
I felt distant from my peers because they didn't have the same feelings that I did. And I felt distant from these sailors because they'd been dead for decades. I felt distant from everyone. But I sparked with zeal and lingered. Hoping and fearing for an opportunity to share.
(Fourth post reflecting on the video game "To The Moon")