Don’t make oceans from just a glass of water! Or so I tell myself. Sometimes, I think it’s almost as if I loved the storm, seems to be a thing in my family. Curious customs.
Changes do stress me. Not the good ones (Who the hell stresses for them?), But those who feel as if someone quickly removed the carpet under your feet, so fast that you don’t even lose your balance, and then you’re standing there in the bare ground like what’s going on?
Lately the storms have created around me a mess of boxes and cellophane, objects and more objects like in a dilapidated treasure cave, a swag at the bottom of the sea.
Paradise lost forever and memories in drifting glass bottles.
Everything is waves and tides, and every time I try to go to the mainland, another wave soaks me and I am freezing and, frankly, on a very bad mood.
The little that is left of dry land is kept by someone in a locked chest at the bottom of the sea, and the key may be keeped by someone, somewhere. But, who knows?
My home … The last remaining free corner on the world. My lost island, you and I, paradise.
But there is something left there, embers between the ashes. I am only a crewman on this ship. All I can do is shrink the water, and take out the cannons. Lower the boat sails, do not run aground. And set sail from the bay of boxes and cellophane.