I remember pressing my innocent ears to the mouths of discarded seashells, just to hear their secrets; and I shared mine. They told me secrets in the form of ocean waves and whispers of wind between the fingers of the palms.
On days that I feel the world crumbling and combusting around me, I press my wiser ears to the same lips that kept all my secrets safe. I remember the advice seashells gave to a young girl who'd felt discarded. Be like the ocean, let it flow.