There is no order to most of my life.
Just as there won’t be much order to this post; my mind yields only things of its own nature and characteristics.
My poor mind, relatively young yet feeling so old. Worn down, like a war ship incessantly buffeted and berated by the interminable winds howling across the vast expanse of sea and darkness; never letting up, allowing no time for reprieve.
The wood creaks, the boards swell with moisture, and the sails test the very limits of the ropes that hold them, seeming as though they might snap at any moment.
But there is no ship. You know this, as you always have. There is nothing but my analogous representation of the inner workings of my mind and my hopes that you’ll be able to comprehend what I am trying to convey:
I am in agony.
Not the type that motivates you. Not the type that keeps you running, utilizing your talents and natural aptitudes in order to stay afloat. In order to stay alive.
No, this type of agony is a pain many here know quite well. This agony stems from the very depths of your soul, finding and ripping out any remaining hope and happiness that you manage to cling to.
It leaves some happiness, but they serve as shards of glass to keep you paralyzed. To keep you laying there, eyes have shut and mouth half open, staring blankly at the foreboding future and your ominous past. The former is the reason behind your efforts of self-imposed destruction, and the latter contains your rationalizations regarding your continued lack of effort for surmounting the parts of your mind that are slowly killing you.
Draining you.
You know you’re drowning. You know it’s not living, and it’s not breathing, but you continue anyway.
Why?
You’re not sure. I’m not sure. But I have noticed, throughout the years, that my reasons for staying adrift aboard this vessel that is steadily tearing itself apart have become more and more diffuse. More and more abstract, abstruse.
I no longer can recognize why I continue to stand aboard my ship, looking around and seeing nothing more than the howling winds that continue to decay both truth and clarity.
I come to you, SP, to ask for help. Any you can give me.
For I’m at risk at being forever lost at sea.
3 comments
Can anyone relate?
The warship is a good metaphor. We’re still here basically by default aren’t we? Because the alternative – dying by our own hand – is a difficult thing to do both physically and mentally. If it were as easy to do as to think about this world would not suffer from an over-population problem…your body wants to go on living at all costs.
Maybe the thought of what’s ahead of you – reaching terra firma again – scares you more than the terror of wicked seas. When you plant your feet you’ll find what you’re looking for, except that it’s scarcely dressed in the garb of romance or poetry.