The Dreamer's Horizon

Monday, 8th December 2025 at 8:05am

Do you have lots of good books lined up for the holiday season?

Enjoy this fantastic piece of writing by Ruby Smyth (Year 10)

The Dreamer’s Horizon

The sea was endless. Nalu floated where the sky melted into hues of a tangerine orange and soft, salmon pink, colours rippled off the water as if the heavens themselves had spilt paint. The waves lifted him as if he were no heavier than a drifting leaf. The taste of salt clung to his lips, stinging his skin, but he welcomed it. To him, salt meant life, and life meant the ocean. The gulls squelched overhead, their calls threading in rhythm to the pulse of the tide. He had always felt like the ocean held secrets, stories too vast for the village to contain. Each wave was a message, and each horizon was a doorway. Perhaps the sea was full of dreams left adrift by those who had once longed for more but had been too afraid to chase them. Closing his eyes, Nalu let the water cradle him like a mother rocking a restless child. In the darkness behind his eyelids, the world sharpened. The hush of the waves turned into whispers, insistent and alive. They were not frightening, but urging like a river’s current pushing a boat forward.

“Why do you drift?” A voice called, clear and low, as if it came from the deep below.

Nalu’s eyes shot open. Nothing, but a flash of a silver fish glimmered from beneath the waves before darting away. No one was there and yet, the question echoed inside of him. It pressed against his chest, heavier than the tide itself. He thought of the island, his village with its woven mats, laughter and smoke curling up from the cooking fires, where people spoke with confidence. Life there was filled with certainty. The fishermen went to sea at dawn, their nets heavy with promises of food. The women stitched those nets tighter, their hands steady with repetition while their children played on sand banks, basking under the mellow sun. All of it was safe, expected, and unchanging. But Nalu’s dream had never fit inside that pattern. At night, when others slept easily, he dreamt of places beyond the horizon; cities with towers of glass that touched the clouds, skies burning in colors no sunset could match, and deserts that sang when the wind swept across. In the village, these dreams made him seem strange. His father’s words returned to him now sharper than ever;

“A man who cannot anchor himself will drift away until he drowns.”

Nalu dipped his hands into the sea, letting the water slip through the cracks between his fingers like time itself. His father’s warning stung him, but instead of sinking him, it sparked something new. Anchors held ships steady, yes, but they also kept them from sailing. He wondered if his father ever thought of that. Perhaps Nalu was not a vessel made to stay tethered. Perhaps drifting was not drowning, but searching. The tide rocked him gently, as he turned his gaze towards the horizon. It did not look like an ending. It looked like an invitation. The thought filled his chest with warmth that was equal with fear and wonder. To dream was to risk being lost, but to never dream was to never live.

For a long time he floated there, caught between the pull of two worlds, the safety of the village and the promise of the unknown. He thought of his mother, her hands rough from work yet soft when they brushed his hair from his forehead. He thought of his younger cousins who trailed him along the beach, believing every story he told about hidden treasures or distant lands. Leaving would mean leaving them, too, but staying meant betraying the restless tide inside his own chest. As the sky deepened into a violet and stars pricked from behind the clouds, Nalu finally began to swim back towards the shore. His muscles burned with each stroke, but his heart felt lighter. Already, faint dots of firelight flickered from the village. He could almost hear the laughter that carried across the sand, the voices rising in songs that had been sung for generations. He loved them, all of them, but love could not quiet the horizon’s call.

He pulled himself onto the shore, toes sinking into the cool sand. Behind him the waves whispered and foamed, never ceasing. Ahead, the fires beckoned him home. For now he would walk back into that glow, smile when they teased him, and eat the fish roasted over the flames. He would not tell them of the voice in the sea or the promise he had made to himself. They would not understand. Still, he lingered, turning once more to the horizon. The last traces of light bled into the water, a thin line of gold dissolving into blue. His father’s words echoed once more. Nalu though, an anchor did not have to mean a chain. Perhaps it could mean carrying the sea whilst keeping his feet on the land. With a breath that tasted like salt, he turned back towards the firelight. He would stay, for his family, for his people, for now. But as the waves lapped against the shore behind him, he knew he could never silence them. The horizon would always call, and though he might never leave, a part of him always belonged to the sea.