Adrift

It depends on the moment.

When it's menacingly overcast, I look out over the vast, drab blueness from my tiny spot atop the flotsam and tremble uncontrollably. My lips, chapped to a crisp, are too sore to let the churning thoughts escape their cranial prison. And they're multiplying in there - angry and loud. Angry that we're back on this piece of flotsam. Loud because the volume masks their fear.

And when the sunshine prances back into the sky, I see warm, beckoning islands in every direction. There's a brand new, amazing treasure that's been buried for me out here; that's why They sent me out on the waves again. It's merely a matter of finding where it's hidden this time. And I feel like a kid on Easter morning, knowing that a great big basket filled with elegant chocolate eggs and sugary marshmallow chicks is waiting mischievously, just for me, somewhere out in my grandmother's garden.