Down Through The Water

On a sailboat, I sprint for the purpose of my life. I run faster than I can, outrunning the pursuing thoughts with their wood-splintering weapons. I speed my way past the glare of onlookers, past my friends who wave blank regards. Past them, I see my fear, exploding with excitement. What I never did was stop to look, to awe and be terrified. No potty on the seas. The sea is my potty and, ironically, I have indigestion. I transcend my walls and go where no fear has ever been before.

Why does my writing sound like this? Self-conscious, self-aware (sometimes), self-concerned... it's embodied my insecurity for me. If I don't look at myself - my writing by extension - I feel I don't make sense, or that anything else I write doesn't matter because it doesn't directly include me. Me, me, me, me. Selfishness is with me on a sailboat. Let's drown. I will survive.