The lighthouse

Through the qualm of my sailor’s journey, not one to be found, but rather subjected to the blue presence of an endless horizon. My deck meanders and forks as the high tide sweeps the journeyman into ambiguity. One can find solace in the heart of death, for the sea is mesmerizing and tremendous.

A journey beyond scope, beyond end. A sailor must navigate, without a sense of home but rather a sense of hope. The waves do not discriminate; the current will sweep any if not all. The only sense of detriment is my inadequacy for preparation. My navigation obscured, my vision blurred, only guided by instinct. As human and bare as our primordial obligation to find earth. Through the presence of time, I fear it has sloped. Supplies will perish, and spirits will fall. Time is all I have to keep, for the sea will not abide by it.

As my vessel rocks across a gentle bridge, dense fog blankets my humble home. Darkness, absolute but not permanent. This gentle sailor grows more in stew. The last stream of hope has disappeared into the dense marine layer. Complete loss of inspiration, complete gain of desperation. The vessel a clumsy pile of sticks, unfit for the high seas. One cannot believe that this deck is what was assigned for this quest. The sailor curses the very existent of it.

Upon the sightless distance grows a very faint beam. A sign of hope. As I draw near, I began to anticipate my arrival. The sea begins to aid in my direction. The whales chant a tune of beauty, nature and man, not segregation but a whole. The beam becomes brighter, illuminating my vessel. As I go onward, I gaze behind, the dense fog, several paces away. The beam begins to take a shape once too familiar, a beacon, a monument, a statue. It is a welcoming lighthouse to guide my journey to land. A warming end to my venture, for this, I have become a storyteller. A tale once to be retold, for as endless as the blue may seem, my vessel will endure.