i cried once. twice maybe

I love the sea. When it is cold and wet at my home my mind will often times drift aimlessly to the ocean blue. And yet I hate it when others speak of the coast, east or west I do not care. It is my sacred place. My soothing memory.  I especially loath it when others speak of the maritime ways: pirates, barnacles, sea breeze, whales. I guess one could call it jealousy. I do not care.

The sea is mine and mine alone. Call me Poseidon’s son. Call me the heir of Davey Jones. Yet it is in my sleep where I must inhale the scent of brine as I touch my tongue to the depths of the 7 seas. I ask myself why I persist to stay in my land locked cell. Why have I not broken free? Why must I insist of paddling along, treading water in the puddles and ponds of my home? Fear maybe. Reality more likely.

I once heard a story of a man asking birds in a tree why they should insist upon flapping their wings in the dying branches . He stated that they had the power to fly away free to any tree in the world. To the man the birds responded, “so do you?”