My Inner Sailor.

January 7, 2009

The life of a sailor is routine. Wake up, swab the poop deck, drink some rum, get scurvy, and sleep. We like to sleep, yet we stay awake searching for time. Time to be me, time to be free, but the water is too deep for that. Downward, downward we plunge, to the depths of the sea. Searching, searching are we. For what? We don’t know. Just something else, other than Captain Moe. He’s an asshole of sorts, a man of honorable cowardice. No wooden peg, no strange accent, just the lingering stench of pomp he has yet to wipe clean from the pits of his arms. Yo ho, yo ho. No no, we don’t say that. We don’t even drink rum, just cry, cry for our missing old mum. A sailors life is misunderstood, we don’t live on a ship of wood, it is but one of paper. Only kept afloat by hope, the hope that we do not plunge into the recesses of the sea. If our hope were to fail our parchment ship would become but one with our dreams that we visit deep in the sea, fortnightly.

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