Drifting and healing

I want to fade white-washed until washed-out, until washed-away:

A frayed chunk of driftwood afraid of drowning following a compass in the direction of if if if. South-if. North-if. East-if. West-ward wayward afraid wood being burntblushed by suns of hope; finding freedom in windblown floating swaying praying foam-frisked playing with the idea of vast nothing - turning it and splashing it into something silly meaning nothing but the moment --> That's my sun-kiss of direction sparkling my horizon without taints of blood-hope -- Just vast-forever possibilities swirling in salty depths. ----In salty swishing planes I float between finding my space and hiding in my space. Sacred vastness sinks medriftwood with the latter [[? But why should I find fault when I love the ocean's treasures?]]