Sinking

The mind is a storm-tossed sea, waves of memory crashing against the shores of consciousness. I am a sailor, desperate to outrun the tempest. I unfurl the sails of distraction - a radio's melody billowing in the wind, a television's glow like a false lighthouse on the horizon. But the storm follows, relentless.

In my hands, I clutch a compass - a photograph, its face weathered by the salt of tears and time. It points always to you, true north in this chaotic voyage. As my ship takes on water, listing dangerously in the swells of emotion, I cling to this last piece of navigation.

The sky darkens, the stars of hope winking out one by one. My vessel creaks and groans, timber splintering under the assault of regret and longing. As I sink beneath the waves, I hold the compass to my chest, its needle spinning wildly now.

In the depths, where light cannot reach, where sound is muffled to a distant roar, I feel the last bubbles of breath escape my lips. They rise like unspoken words, lost to the vast ocean of what might have been. And still, I grasp the compass, its face the last thing I see as the currents of time and memory sweep me away, into the endless blue of eternity.

This was from a dream 4/18/2023