For You, Sailor, Amidst The Dead Sea

 

Credits:

"God loves everybody; don't remind me." - Graceless, by The National

"Now always feels infinite and never is." - The Anthropocene Reviewed, by John Green

"The thing with feathers has perched in your soul." - Inspired by "Hope" Is The Thing With Feathers, by Emily Dickinson 

For You, Sailor, Amidst The Dead Sea

 

          You, pursuant to all whom you share your species with, shall one day wake on an island in the midst of The Dead Sea. You were told this day would come; you have, on several occasions, mused over the implications of this day and what you would do and feel during its occurrence.

You are alone – no one said that you would be alone.

Dazed and somewhat frazzled, you try to gather your wits about you. “I wasn’t alone this morning,” you think, “I was home with my family. My friends were there too – it was they who broke the news to me. I remember two of them were crying, one of them sat mute, and the other recounted their last moments… Where are they now?”

You look around: nothing but a thicket of unsightly foliage, a peppering of stones, and scattered rotting paraphernalia of a plastic or metallic nature. The sea around you lies beneath a curtain of fog. You look down at yourself: fresh gashes and bruises line your torso and your extremities. You look within: a void. This should be everything.

Wait. No. No, there’s something more. Your eyes focus on a slanted wooden sign with a name written on it. Their name. You try to read it aloud, but as the last syllable is about to leave your mouth, the string of sounds twist into a noose, and you choke. You couldn’t say it. Before you can reattempt this task which now poses a hitherto unthought of degree of difficulty, the torrential waves of The Dead Sea pounce at your personage. As the water crashes onto you and hurls you to-and-fro, the salt infused behemoth digs into your open wounds, lighting them ablaze with agony. You writhe in pain and cry in desperation. The barrage shan’t cease. Resistance is an exercise in futility. Thus, you cry your tears; stir in anger; continually renounce and un-renounce your faiths; and, eventually, succumb to the storm.

You are blinded. You are depleted. You think: “This now is forever.”

…

But then, one day soon, you awake to a cerulean sky. In a mild concern, you examine your surroundings, trying to discern the cause of this change of scenery. Some distance away, you spot land. It is your home. As a seemingly foreign seed of optimism sprouts in your mind, you study your immediate environment- now in broad daylight- to find a welcome surprise. You are not stranded on an island, but are afloat on a blemished ship! Its course is toward a port with which you are familiar. In a few hours, you return home. Your family is there, and so are your friends. They seem to be doing better. Over time, you begin to talk with them like you used to. Occasionally, you reminisce over intimated stories and captured memories of them. You acquire new habits and rituals to honour them and comfort yourself. Your smile returns. You resume living. You think: “This will be okay…”

…

You are back.

It has been a while since you were here. Your milieu is the same as before, save for a new wooden sign, with a new name scribbled on it. Compelled to rectify your previous failure, you utter their name. The noose re-establishes itself around your neck; but, its hold is not as tight as you remember. A name escapes your mouth, albeit faint.

Ere long, your senses return to you. This time was quicker. Crimson slashes and purple bruises are still the colours with which your canvas has been painted. You assure yourself: “I’ve been here before; it is not an island, but a ship. There must be wheel with which I can steer!” Frenzied by the thought that you may be able to tame The Dead Sea this time round, you scramble to find the steering wheel. “There!” you proclaim, having located the instrument. You leap toward it, narrowly avoiding a wave that violently boarded your vessel, and grab it. However, with the means of your salvation held firmly in your grasp, a realisation strikes you: there is nothing you can attach the wheel to. With haste, you clamber to find a shaft or gear of some sort. “No. Not there. Nothing here. Where could it b –” The monstrosity of brine descends upon you again, giving way to an immense blackness, and then, pain.

Pain, again.

And again, and again, and again.

The barrage shan’t cease. Resistance is an exercise in futility.

…

Certainly, the prose put forth by your mind in this time is one with which most can empathise – and even agree.

“If I am to return to this hellscape time and time again, why am I not to simply stay? What stops me from having myself jettisoned into this abyss? I am insignificant on an astronomical scale, and broadly unsuccessful on a human one. Does it matter if I make it back to shore? Perhaps, if I offer myself as the sacrifice amidst these horse latitudes, and allow myself to drown in the swill, I may speak to them just once more…”

You crawl toward the ship’s rim and glimpse out over the edge. A lyric rings in your mind’s ear: “God loves everybody; don’t remind me.”

You close your eyes. A final moment of self-persuasion ensues.

…

No.

You cannot.

The thing with feathers has perched in your soul. Golden and symphonic, the shackles of hope embrace you, and you are not to be let go. Not yet. You may not dissolve into The Dead Sea and merely become its salt, for there are still those who love you waiting back home. You must return to them – this time, yes, and every time you are back in these waters, until that sickle-wielding harvester comes knocking on your door.

Your mind is liberated; the tempest breaks. Your homeland is visible once more. You think: “This will be okay, too…”

…

Listen, sailor, with great assiduity: with each return to The Dead Sea, the nooses around your neck will loosen, and you may even learn to steer your vessel. Taming this goliath, however, will remain impossible. But you mustn’t fret – you will make it back to shore, provided this be your motto:

“Now always feels infinite and never is.”