I'm no Jack Sparrow

I've lost myself. As a pirate, my navigation skills haven't lived up to their reputation in the fog. I wish I knew where I was going. I wish I knew how to control the weather of my conscience, which seems to have completely enveloped the way in darkness. What an ambiguous lifestyle I've led. What an uncertain path I tread. What an unhappy road I've chosen.

No one has answers to clarify what I seek. I've inquired, and all they can reply with is, "I don't know what to tell you." The honesty is appreciated, but the truth weighs heavier than the question. I'm lost. I'm alone in the fog. It's getting cold. I can feel the congestion breeding a deathly virus in the seat of my lungs. I'm drowning, but I'm starting to accept the loneliness. Death seems inevitable, but not so frightful anymore. I'm starting to understand better, but like a Wiseman brooding in his tall, dark tower I'm feeling the weight of it, and it's crushing and withering the happiness into a pulpy mass of wretched feelings. I'm not nostalgic over the loss. I don't mourn it. I will miss it now and again, but I won't dwell in angst.

Someday the fog will clear and the skies will be blue again. A swift wind will carry me far and I'll have a clear conception of where I'm going. But for now... this haziness pulls me to the deck, and I can taste the bitter, salty signs of past sailors who've saturated the boards with likewise misery.