declare holy ground.

I’ve never been one for declaring anything. I am not the one to sail up on shore, thrust my boots in the muddy earth, and out from my pocket pull a weather worn flag to stick in the ground declaring it “MINE”. I am not deserving of that. Fresh starts in foreign new lands don’t come for people like me.

The voyage that was slated to last 13 months and yet it is going on, what? 13, 14, 15 years, with the horizon still not surrendering land. Not even a hint at rest from the brutality found in the confines of a ship as it is tossed from wave to wave in an cosmic game of hot potato. Have I been duped into sailing endlessly? Constantly circumnavigating the earth as someone looks on, amused that I have yet to set my feet on dry ground? It would appear that in my assembly I was denied the one thing I need for this never-ending journey…sea legs.

The boat pitches from starboard to port and back again. Days on end searching for a safe harbor. A harbor where I can drop anchor and shed the fear that comes with the open seas.

Neatly tucked away in my pocket is a flag. It is weatherworn and dirty. Years of runny noses and bloody hands have taken its toll and this pathetic excuse for a flag has come in quite useful. There are times, usually at day break or sunset, I find myself dreaming of a day when that flag, my flag, will drive into soft ground and I will stand proudly by and claim mine. I dream of the future ground on which I will stand, free from the tossing, free from the vomit, free from the pirates that constantly threaten and harass me and the ones I love. Oh, how I long to be free from this journey that seems unending and relentless in its torment.

One day, one beautiful glorious day, I will hear the cry of “LAND HO” and I will drive this vessel straight onto the shores and hurl myself overboard – me and this little flag – one corner then the next – I will tie that pathetic, yet faithful, little flag to the end of a stick and with all the strength left in my bones I will stick that flag in the ground and declare it “MINE”.

But for now, its time for sailing.

Here’s to praying for sea-legs.

And here’s to the holding on.

This post was inspired by a prompt given in Story Sessions.
There is always room for you to join us. 

the what now

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walking into the room you feel it

it settles in your bones

and you cant shake the sticky weight of it

this isn’t what is comfortable

your normal has disappeared

what you knew is gone and you have no idea what is coming

the what now. the in between. the aftermath.

this is the “what now”.

 

the answers you were always sure would solve this problem

fall on your own deaf ears

you try, you fail, you try, you fail,

you flounder about

sure that you’ll never get it right again.

 

this is the aftermath. they say the hard part is done

but you know that you are living the hard part.

right now.

this is the hardest fucking part of any of it –

except for the maybe deciding to do it in the first place

 

but now, you are in the thick of it

you could turn back, absolutely you could,

but that would have far worse consequences.

put your head down. keep walking.

surely, it cant be like this forever.

right? right.

 

but for this moment, you are trapped in the “what now”

which way to move is unclear

and the ground is unsteady under your trembling feet.

don’t run, please don’t run.

we need you here in the “what now”

this is the important part. this is where people see.

the cheering erupts, the crowd goes wild

this is the factory that turns out the survivors,

the ones who have been battered and bruised but still fight,

the “we’ve made it this far and we can’t afford to go back”

 

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