a story
Subtle threads of influence confound our objectivity. We have the capacity to love life and embrace death. We have the imagination to paint amorously, with words or brush, pictures of stormy wind-blown seas and defiant ships fighting torrents of angry waves. As our friends fall around us from age, illness, and disaster, we have the responsibility to live through the tragedy that encompasses our lives. As their spirits soar through birth, love, and friendship, we hav the privilege to share in their happiness. This perpetual sorrow and divine joy are what carve out and fill the mad existence we experience. They stifle reason, decimate logic, and confuse sense and judgment. However, rationale and understanding equally guide our figurative sails. Therefore, both our emotions and rationale steer us through life.
The waves caressed the docks. The tide was coming in, and John was sailing out. He was an angler by trade; Seattle to Alaska was his route. Patrick, his best friend, always accompanied him. Alaska was their destination. Long, hard days on the sea were all they had to look forward to for the next couple of weeks. He breathed. Salty, crip air filled his body. Exhale. He left his troubles with the carbon dioxide that escaped his lungs. No man can control the sea. They would deal with whatever tribulations that bored clown, Fate, would conceive for them. The anticipation of the journey burned inside John.
A week and a half went by. They sailed smoothly, but John could see the dark cumulus clouds of a storm rolling in. They were a couple of days from the port of Nightmute, Alaska, off the Bering Sea. They could not evade the weather system coming toward them. Fate's puppets after all; he would tire of this game halfway through. John felt the wind picking up around him, whispering gentle persuasion, "Turn back. Turn back or I'll send my big brother after you!" They could not turn back; the storm overtook them.
A month went by, and John was back at the docks in Seattle. The air was putrid, the smell of salt and seaweed crushing. The rotting boards under his feet buckled with the crashing of polluted waves. Patrick was dead; the storm had taken him. Fate had his fill. He wsa hungry for entertainment, and his appetite was satisfied. John's acidic sarcasm plagued his mind, "I hope it was a good show." John was to sail that morning. He would set out for Alaska using the same route as before, this time without his best friend. Work was all he had to sustain him. His living costs over the leave he had taken were piling up and emptying his bank account. No man can live on misery alone. It leaves too bitter a taste on his palate. John had a new shipmate for the voyage, a man who called himself Sparrow, like the bird. He seemed competent enough. Sparrow came sauntering up to him. John muttered, "It's time to earn your keep."
The waves caressed the docks. The tide was coming in, and John was sailing out. He was an angler by trade; Seattle to Alaska was his route. Patrick, his best friend, always accompanied him. Alaska was their destination. Long, hard days on the sea were all they had to look forward to for the next couple of weeks. He breathed. Salty, crip air filled his body. Exhale. He left his troubles with the carbon dioxide that escaped his lungs. No man can control the sea. They would deal with whatever tribulations that bored clown, Fate, would conceive for them. The anticipation of the journey burned inside John.
A week and a half went by. They sailed smoothly, but John could see the dark cumulus clouds of a storm rolling in. They were a couple of days from the port of Nightmute, Alaska, off the Bering Sea. They could not evade the weather system coming toward them. Fate's puppets after all; he would tire of this game halfway through. John felt the wind picking up around him, whispering gentle persuasion, "Turn back. Turn back or I'll send my big brother after you!" They could not turn back; the storm overtook them.
A month went by, and John was back at the docks in Seattle. The air was putrid, the smell of salt and seaweed crushing. The rotting boards under his feet buckled with the crashing of polluted waves. Patrick was dead; the storm had taken him. Fate had his fill. He wsa hungry for entertainment, and his appetite was satisfied. John's acidic sarcasm plagued his mind, "I hope it was a good show." John was to sail that morning. He would set out for Alaska using the same route as before, this time without his best friend. Work was all he had to sustain him. His living costs over the leave he had taken were piling up and emptying his bank account. No man can live on misery alone. It leaves too bitter a taste on his palate. John had a new shipmate for the voyage, a man who called himself Sparrow, like the bird. He seemed competent enough. Sparrow came sauntering up to him. John muttered, "It's time to earn your keep."