August 6th, today’s waters contain canoes of anesthetized, pale sailors, collapsed with powders sprinkled over their bodies and piles of fish on their chests. Heaps of fish, weighted blankets, descend upon the soul lost in fog—the sailor, our consciousness, has dissociated, tired of striving to steer toward destiny in a tiny boat at the point where a river becomes an ocean.
This juncture where a smaller thing becomes something bigger than our current bodies can handle is the thread of today, for our souls are too vast for our idea of them and we fancy ourselves content to remain zonked out corpses covered in the small fish we’ve caught.
But we’re still more: we’re also the pirates lurking from all corners of the ocean, ready to seize the treasure buried under the sleeping sailors’ bodies. We’re also the turbulent waves. And if we can bring awareness to the sun, roiling ball of fire, we’ll see that we’re not only wet blankets unable to connect the different areas of our lives.
The sun opens and angels fall out, appearing as small dragons smoking cigarettes. The hot ball of fire, and the light of brilliance, merges with the moody numbness, and our courage is roused.
It’s ok to be both river and ocean, pirate and humble fisherman, comatose at sea and the sun itself—in fact it’s a requirement that today, in some small form, we bridge these worlds.