Tyre

We stare at the wreckage the storm has brought. We stare at the pieces of wood, the pieces of garments, the pieces of the sail, and the pieces of us. We too have become remnants of the storm.

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We are navigators.

We are in our ships away from the harbor, journeying the seamless ocean. There are nights when we see the stars. We spend hours admiring how marvelous these bodies of heaven look in the open sky. We hold bottles of rum and sing the sailors’ anthem. We all turn into bards and tell the tales of our adventures.  There are mornings when the scent of the sea wakes us and the breeze, so perfect that we’d just like to lie in our sheets. Sometimes, the pitter -patter of the rain against the water would silence us and peacefully, we just stare at the droplets as they fall. We are the helmsman of our wheel. We decide on every turn and route we take. We see how the sky kisses the sea. We see how the sun gently folds its rays against the horizon. And again, we shall be gently put to sleep by the waves that rock our boats like little cribs. Maybe tomorrow when we wake, we could discover an island that hides treasures.

Sometimes life is just perfect.

Then suddenly strong winds hit us.

It starts like a soft whistle. Like a short interruption in our sleep. It is a warning coming from somewhere. And it grows and howls in the middle of the night.

The gentle waves have become rough. The winds are stronger and our sails shake and tear apart. We struggle to keep our boats in balance. Our ropes are shorter than we think. We lose our patience and we tug so hard that they break. The winds blow harder and the rain has soaked our carriages. The water starts to seep in like death slowly crawling on our feet. We are sucked into a whirlpool where there is no escape. The ocean, we thought was gentle became a monster that will devour every life in us. We hold on to the edge, we kneel side by side. We pray for deliverance.

The winds slowly calmed. And the night has become peaceful again, so peaceful that the silence has been deafening.

We have lived and survived… but we are lost.

The turbulent waves have sent us somewhere we haven’t sailed yet, somewhere unfamiliar.

Our boats are damaged, just strong enough to keep us afloat. We sail in the endless ocean thinking, when shall we reach land? We have lost the helm and we just have to go where the waves take us. There are nights when we think about just diving into the water and disappear among the bubbles that we left behind. We stare at the wreckage the storm has brought. We stare at the pieces of wood, the pieces of garments, the pieces of the sail, and the pieces of us. We too have become remnants of the storm.

As we continue to float, we long for the harbor. In the middle of chaos, and even in the middle of emptiness, we long for the harbor. In a place where we will be welcomed; where our tired bodies shall meet with soft sheets and warm embraces. Where wounds shall be treated until they all heal. Where loneliness shall be replaced with companions wishing to hear the tales of the adventure. Where we are again in control of the turns and the routes we take. Where the wreckage shall just be a distant dream and we could start rebuilding dreams again.

When we reach the harbor, we will not be called lost souls anymore…

but we shall be called navigators again.

 

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