RE: Countdown to the next username change
November 15, 2021 at 4:54 am
(This post was last modified: November 15, 2021 at 4:54 am by Tomato.)
Uncertain if this is going anywhere, but here is chapter one:
Navigating the calm waters by starlight, a cold northerly wind presses at my back as I paddle the kayak toward a destination that may not be forthcoming in revealing itself to me. Instinct informs me that I am traveling in the correct direction, and I keep doubt at bay as I maintain an uncanny sway over both the air and water surrounding me.
Being careful not to summon a sea tempest in a fervor to find the island, I focus on keeping my thoughts in the present. Memories of the past are capable of stirring tumultuous emotions that can have devastating ramifications via nature. My emotional state has coincided with the weather on more than one occasion.
Besides, I like to think that age and discipline have cultivated my wilder inclinations. Once a humid hurricane, I now perceive myself as a graceful glacier. At forty-two years of age, after all, it should stand to reason that I have learned a few things and somewhat sobered a propensity for foolhardiness. Everyone develops differently, at varying rates, and as a man I did not have the same advantage that women seem to possess.
A siren song slips past my defenses and, although feeling honored in such a validating way, I momentarily stop paddling. As I coast along a reflective sheen of silver, I gaze upon the brilliance of a full moon. Resting the paddle across the cockpit and my lap, I reach up and use my thumbs to press the plugs further into my ear canals. The intrusive song ends and I take up the paddle once again.
The nearby sirens are distant cousins whom I have never met. People on the island prefer to maintain a safe separation from any and all outsiders. It has been some time, twenty-seven years to be more precise, since I have seen them. It is highly doubtful that I will be welcomed back, assuming that the island is even willing to reveal itself to me.
Honestly, I do not know why I am even attempting to return here. The island community is too caught up in unwavering, outdated, tradition. Yet, since my personal life has plummeted into chaos, I feel myself being inexorably drawn back to where I was born.
Career-wise, being a history teacher at a renown boarding school, all is fine. I plan on returning to teaching after the winter break. It is the romantic part of my life that is currently suffering. Being with me is too difficult for most people to handle, and as such I do not blame them for eventually bailing on the relationship.
The wind becomes stronger and the kayak rocks through rough water. I inhale deeply and then calmly exhale, return my focus to the present, and the environment in the immediate vicinity settles itself. The last thing I need is for a whirlpool to open beneath me. Drowning is an uncomfortable way to die, although I imagine the freezing temperature of the water might ease the transition.
But physical death is not something I wish to experience any time soon.
A light unrelated to the reflection of the sky appears in the water. Sirens do not glow, which is how I know that is not what is below the surface. There is one bioluminescent creature it can be, and that is a jellyfish. I do not recall seeing them the evening I fled the island. Then again, my focus at the time was not on the aesthetic of the ocean.
The jellyfish appear along both sides of the kayak. When I return my gaze ahead, it becomes apparent that the jellyfish are lighting a path for me.
Well, this is interesting, I think as I paddle to move forward.
Someone on the island must want me to make it back there. Since I left unexpectedly, three years before my salto egin, I cannot imagine who is expecting my return. Memory is a fickle thing, but I recall no real friends. Family is even less likely to be behind this helpful pathway, because I am the mental and physical embodiment of what they despise.
The tactful approach is to not blame them for their judgment toward people like me, but life experience has taught me that blame must be placed where it is due. Whether those involved ever learn is irrelevant, because knowledge rarely changes an ignorant perspective. Yet it stands to reason that unacceptable behavior should not go unchecked.
Of course, this approach to life is probably what is ensuring my continued single existence. Alienating lovers and friends, even strangers, seems to be my superpower in a regressively fake world.
As I continue to follow the wet runway, I wonder what my purpose is for revisiting a place I will not likely refer to as home again. Sometimes, as rational as I am, it can be difficult to understand where my enchanted disposition is leading me. Although I have done well on my own, there is no doubt in my mind that I could have a better understanding of my sorgin nature had I chosen to forsake myself all those years ago and remained on the island.
Regret is not my crux, especially since I consider myself a city boy rather than a country girl. If I have to apply logic to this trip home, it is that the most recent upset in my personal life has triggered something deep inside of me. Possibly, I require closure in order to make of my life what it cannot be otherwise.
It is rather grim to think that I cannot enjoy a fulfilling life without confronting my past, as though I am not in complete control of my own destiny, yet here I am heading toward an uncertain confrontation.
My forearms sway to a simple rhythm as my hands take turns dipping paddles into the water on either side of me, propelling me in the only direction anyone can maneuver according to our perception of time. My single hope is that I come to the other side of this journey with my dignity intact.
Navigating the calm waters by starlight, a cold northerly wind presses at my back as I paddle the kayak toward a destination that may not be forthcoming in revealing itself to me. Instinct informs me that I am traveling in the correct direction, and I keep doubt at bay as I maintain an uncanny sway over both the air and water surrounding me.
Being careful not to summon a sea tempest in a fervor to find the island, I focus on keeping my thoughts in the present. Memories of the past are capable of stirring tumultuous emotions that can have devastating ramifications via nature. My emotional state has coincided with the weather on more than one occasion.
Besides, I like to think that age and discipline have cultivated my wilder inclinations. Once a humid hurricane, I now perceive myself as a graceful glacier. At forty-two years of age, after all, it should stand to reason that I have learned a few things and somewhat sobered a propensity for foolhardiness. Everyone develops differently, at varying rates, and as a man I did not have the same advantage that women seem to possess.
A siren song slips past my defenses and, although feeling honored in such a validating way, I momentarily stop paddling. As I coast along a reflective sheen of silver, I gaze upon the brilliance of a full moon. Resting the paddle across the cockpit and my lap, I reach up and use my thumbs to press the plugs further into my ear canals. The intrusive song ends and I take up the paddle once again.
The nearby sirens are distant cousins whom I have never met. People on the island prefer to maintain a safe separation from any and all outsiders. It has been some time, twenty-seven years to be more precise, since I have seen them. It is highly doubtful that I will be welcomed back, assuming that the island is even willing to reveal itself to me.
Honestly, I do not know why I am even attempting to return here. The island community is too caught up in unwavering, outdated, tradition. Yet, since my personal life has plummeted into chaos, I feel myself being inexorably drawn back to where I was born.
Career-wise, being a history teacher at a renown boarding school, all is fine. I plan on returning to teaching after the winter break. It is the romantic part of my life that is currently suffering. Being with me is too difficult for most people to handle, and as such I do not blame them for eventually bailing on the relationship.
The wind becomes stronger and the kayak rocks through rough water. I inhale deeply and then calmly exhale, return my focus to the present, and the environment in the immediate vicinity settles itself. The last thing I need is for a whirlpool to open beneath me. Drowning is an uncomfortable way to die, although I imagine the freezing temperature of the water might ease the transition.
But physical death is not something I wish to experience any time soon.
A light unrelated to the reflection of the sky appears in the water. Sirens do not glow, which is how I know that is not what is below the surface. There is one bioluminescent creature it can be, and that is a jellyfish. I do not recall seeing them the evening I fled the island. Then again, my focus at the time was not on the aesthetic of the ocean.
The jellyfish appear along both sides of the kayak. When I return my gaze ahead, it becomes apparent that the jellyfish are lighting a path for me.
Well, this is interesting, I think as I paddle to move forward.
Someone on the island must want me to make it back there. Since I left unexpectedly, three years before my salto egin, I cannot imagine who is expecting my return. Memory is a fickle thing, but I recall no real friends. Family is even less likely to be behind this helpful pathway, because I am the mental and physical embodiment of what they despise.
The tactful approach is to not blame them for their judgment toward people like me, but life experience has taught me that blame must be placed where it is due. Whether those involved ever learn is irrelevant, because knowledge rarely changes an ignorant perspective. Yet it stands to reason that unacceptable behavior should not go unchecked.
Of course, this approach to life is probably what is ensuring my continued single existence. Alienating lovers and friends, even strangers, seems to be my superpower in a regressively fake world.
As I continue to follow the wet runway, I wonder what my purpose is for revisiting a place I will not likely refer to as home again. Sometimes, as rational as I am, it can be difficult to understand where my enchanted disposition is leading me. Although I have done well on my own, there is no doubt in my mind that I could have a better understanding of my sorgin nature had I chosen to forsake myself all those years ago and remained on the island.
Regret is not my crux, especially since I consider myself a city boy rather than a country girl. If I have to apply logic to this trip home, it is that the most recent upset in my personal life has triggered something deep inside of me. Possibly, I require closure in order to make of my life what it cannot be otherwise.
It is rather grim to think that I cannot enjoy a fulfilling life without confronting my past, as though I am not in complete control of my own destiny, yet here I am heading toward an uncertain confrontation.
My forearms sway to a simple rhythm as my hands take turns dipping paddles into the water on either side of me, propelling me in the only direction anyone can maneuver according to our perception of time. My single hope is that I come to the other side of this journey with my dignity intact.
“The man who can't visualize a horse galloping on a tomato is an idiot.”
~ André Breton
~ André Breton
![[Image: thumbnail.jpg]](https://i.ibb.co/J2Pnn8S/thumbnail.jpg)
