A drop of sunset fell down into the deep dark sea.
The light slowly became liquid fire and then extinguished into the night. The only spark still shining down on the silent sea was the pole star, fighting its way through the dense clouds of winter.

This tiny hint of light drew a path over the smooth waves, onto the sand and onto an object of ancient moonshine-made glass: a tattered bottle. The letter it contained had long perished by the touch of salt, its words drank in by the sea and forever drowning.

This bottle held a solid emptiness. A kind of emptiness you could almost feel on your skin. A kind of emptiness that would run down your spine and make yours hair rise up and your toes tingle. A kind of emptiness that made your heart skip a beat, aching with pain… a pain that was pure loneliness… a pain that was holding on to you and dragging you down the beach into those chillingly tranquil waves… and you would freeze from inside to out and never move again.

This is what had happened to the writer. The guy that had once held this bottle in his hands.
He had written those words on that untraceable piece of paper and he had put his lips to the glass and drunk the deathly alcoholic liquid inside. Staggering down to the beach he had whispered to the bottle his meaningless parting words and then dropped it into the polluted waters at the dock. A less than two second fall, a soft splash… It was the man’s soul. And it was that, that caught his balance and tipped him over. A less than two second fall, his body never retrieved.

A lonely bottle, a departed soul, a never to be filled void. One piece of so many.
This happens every day. All over the world. They fall into the water and the change can not be undone. Captured by society.

Some leave a letter, a short note, nothing at all. Every ending has its own meaning. Yet, where does it begin? Which bottle, which liquid… who sold it?
In the morning the beach is polluted, the tourists upset, volunteers trying to clean up the mess.

We enter the bottle. We see the world pass by but feel nothing. We can only see it pass by and be saddened by our vision ever becoming more unclear.
This is not to be changed, this is how it is… We can regret is, ignore it, attempt to alter it, give up on it… Or we can look inside. Outside destruction will always take place. But inside, you will find the soul of that writer and the reason he ended. Because he was not alone.

Inside that bottle is aching emptiness.

Because we would not accept. We try to change others in ignorance of our self. There is a set image, a painting painted onto the window.

Open the curtains, uncork the bottle.
Be free.

When the clouds cover the pole star, remember it is still there. Shining bright, shining for the never noticed bottle. Shining for you and wishing you to shine.