I am kind of lost. More like. I have lost myself. Somewhere. I must get myself back, I know. But I don't know how. Or if it is even possible. I sure hope it is. I hate floating around like this. Having known the shore once upon a time. I long to walk on the sand. To experience the surety of standing up on my own two feet. Have my lungs filled with air. Again. I am tired of yielding to the currents. I am tired of the smell of the sea. I have started believing the sea is me. And that the mermaids and the dolphins are real. That the land is a hallucination. But there is memory. And there are ghosts. And they will not let me be. They haunt every idle second. Every storm-less night. And somewhere inside the sea of me. There is a tiny piece of land. Floating. Constantly reminding. Of the continent I used to be. If only. A man could gather himself from the sea. If I could. Arrive. Grain by grain. Till the whole shore was me again. And the trees. And the footprints. Were me. For the hundredth time. In this continuing erosion of a million years. I resolve. To go home. But maybe it is already too late. But maybe it is not.
PS: To Go Home - Daniel Johnston