Sailing

Resting on a fragile raft, the depth of the ocean beneath me, my sail catches the wind and takes me to unknown lands and unknown adventures. Like Max in the Wolfsuit, I drift in and out of weeks—weeks being measured by my own mind rather than the cogs and wheels of humanity. My naked shoulder blades report the sensation of skin on raw wood, tethering me to reality. I deftly ignore it. Clouds parade across my sky—Cumulonimbus sitting throne to it’s kingdom of Cirrus and Stratus subjects. Out here the breeze has confidence to sing, flirting with the lolling sea. Out here, humanity has a different definition. It has no definition. It has no greater will or capacity to survive than that of the present company. I sail on, surging with the pulse of the massive water.