Don’t take me for a nice guy.
Don’t take me for an asshole.
Just… don’t take me.
To understand me you have to
see I am at sea.
Not a sailor or a captain,
not even a cook or a boatswain;
just a stowaway.
I lost my way and ended up here,
near the edge of the world,
hurled into a vast nothingness,
an empty expanse.
So with expansive words and gestures
I will attempt articulate that which festers me:
Because you see, I am not actually at sea.
This vessel is not within water…
…but has water within.
Encased in skin and sinew,
bone and muscle bustling to and fro,
I watch as I ebb and flow.
How can I be lost within myself?
Myself, a floating vessel of organs and cells,
excels at what it was designed to do.
We few survivors of evolution are designed merely for procreation.
The continuation of our lineages.
As if our only value lies with our heritage.
Thus, I am not worthy in and of myself but am instead a genetic repository.
I am transitory to my immortal genes.
I can see this while at sea,
My somehow submerged bouyancy allowing clarity.
It is almost freeing knowing your purpose is external to yourself.
That leaves the rest for the all-encompassing Self.
But I am lost in it- my rivers of coursing perceptions disregard the finer details like orientation to any surface.
Instead, a Charybdis discourse between sub-conscious selves.
I imagine them as little elves, delving into memories, gleefully shining the few they enjoy, toying with them, and then casually destroying me with them.
See this bauble? See this sheen? Watch it gleam as it sinks into the depths.
Watch it, and ponder your depth.
Ponder your death.
Because it is insignificant.
Significance lies in the passage of genes, remember?
Remember that one December?
Frost biting the air as you stroked her hair back from her cheek,
seeking a warmth not measured in degrees,
seizing you with a serpentine grip,
squeezing you so hard you forget to find your breath and you’re underwater,
watching as the gleaming pair of you drift into your depths.
So much has been lost down there.
Or up there.
In the sea that is me there is no direction.
Only omnipresent reflection,
mirrors on mirrors stretching into infinity
such that you cannot discern reality
from the playful facsimiles.
Simply float on. And on.
It is silent here.
Not out of fear.
It is merely the nature of this place.
Placed so quietly in obscurity.
That is, Me.