“My thoughts are a ship, and I’m no sailor. But the prospect of sinking to the bottom of the sea…it doesn’t sound entirely terrible at the moment.”

You’ll find me in Belgium, on the coast of the North Sea. I’ll be swaying on the current, the salty spray of the tide running me towards the Strait of Dover. It bears my essence as it crashes, a crushing cerulean weight to turn rock into sand and sailors dreams into restless sleep. 

And somewhere in that swirl, I’m sure you’ll be there too. No matter how far I go, from shoreline to shoreline, begging refuge from coastguards and strange light towers, I never drift far enough to find an Ocean without at least an ounce of you.

I’ve taken to sleeping at the bottom of the Sea, because how could a shadow find me in that darkest of blues? It’s quite a long trip; exactly the type of long trip you expect from a one way ticket. But as the saying goes, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

In this curious case of a hopeless sailor, nothing ventured would be ideal. If only I could sail back, before Belgium and the sight of Dover. If only I could sail back, before the world I knew had you. If only I could sail back, never leaving the comfort of my own, familiar lighthouse.

If only I could sail back…perhaps I wouldn’t need to travel to the bottom of the Sea to find peace…

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