Rough Sailing

At the moment I’m in a storm, and it’s weird. I’ve been through many storms before but I have never felt this lost, have never felt this hopeless about reaching dry land. Or maybe I have. I hope so, because that means I survived it.

In the cabin, where the wall sometimes becomes the floor and vice versa, I’m pawing through old maps, yellow-curled and unfathomably dry, trying to find a time, and a map, because this ship does nothing if it does not travel through time, ever forwards… Or so I thought.

The map I pull up makes me groan. Because it’s the one from 10 years ago, when I had nothing and nobody in the world except my parents. When I felt like my journey was always circling the Charybdis and Scylla of my life and would never escape except in one direction. And it was always one I didn’t want to take, though I’ve been sorely tempted.

On deck the sea is as bad as it has ever been, and I wonder if I can remember the way out, but nothing looks quite the same. And this ship has gotten complacent in the meantime; loaded itself down with the trappings of a semi-normal life, no longer a murderous little cutter that, though mean and so little against an angry ocean, at least could pilot through rocks well.

There’s going to be collateral damage. And I don’t know how to stop it, especially since I have no first mate and no crew on hand. The last time I had both, on and off, and it was still a close thing. And went on for far too long.

I’m going to have to find some help.

Oh. Yes. iPhone. Well. I guess I need to remember a lifeline number now. Though stopping for long enough to think of one is not an option right now.

I really wish there was an app for this.

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