It will roll along the waves with the rest of the men whose bodies sink to the floor whilst I stand on the shore with the shell I chose to keep in admiration, anticipating for when I will make it aware of itself as I have been made. Now, as I peel the skin of a banana, I dip into a reverie of the large ship whom I gave back to my tides.
Through the toughest sea-peaks he sailed sweetly, navigating as though he’s swam these blue bodies for aeons—I’m sure he has—yet, his wear from these waters was prominent, his ejection from these seas was eminent; his sail was now weaker than my second hand linens. I do not know if he knew—maybe—but I certainly did. I also remembered this was only a short journey. A short journey to the point of where I began. And where I began is the same place where I continue to begin. It is the same place where I breathe in new air through an old nose, where I see through the smoke, where I turn other persons lyres.
'How many more sentiments on this ship can I make?' I thought to myself as we neared the land. There was no more distinction between short and long; one, two, and three; night and day—no more. There was only the ship and I. And the ship consisted of his natal awakening and his natal sleeping; and I consisted of my start and end.
Once I’ve gotten towards sea firth, close enough to pink sand, I immediately climbed down the twine ladder zealous to bring vegetation to the rest of the land; bring a comma (never a period, it could never be a period, not materially or spiritually) to the question marks. I splashed and ran, rocks lifting from beneath my feet, droplets forming back into drops forming back into pools forming back into bodies.
I looked back to wave good-bye to the ship, then I noticed he remained a question mark. He kept his anchor close to the shores, wading in the pool, but I put a hyphen to this reverie. I put a hyphen to this reverie because he is still here. I am not getting back onto the ship. I must swim on my own, on our own, with the quests I embark with my shell, with the fragrant seeking I find when I lift the palm leaf. My shell has to see the journey I see, my shell needs to be in the drifting wings of the open conundrum. Use all senses. It is all I could need.
My reverie frees itself, my reality frees itself. My shell is harkened. The ship is harkened. I am harkened. You are watching our reflections sway in the water. I am reflecting in the water-sway.
I wear my shell on a chain. A yoga of my(Our)(I) one Soul. Marriage in the highest octave. I drift seemingly further from the ship, but I are not moving, the ship is not moving. 'Get closer to me,' Twinkles say. I are not moving.
aThe ship is separate, the only thing separate from me. I detach from him using pronouns, using things to emphasize the ships tear. I suggest everyone ride the ship, please. Once I learn to be accept the ship with my shell, with myself (and you all) then I think I will move towards the ship.
In this temporal realm I can only row one paddle at a time.