The backdrop was purple, spotless, and faded. There were no specks of sparkle. Save the scratch of wood against sand, it was silent. A boat was pushed from the shore by time, pulled by a band of invisible strings. The waters were vast, their distance ambiguous and unknown.
What lies there? Just there, across these waters? An island full of people? A continent full of cities? Boats filled with chances?
Waves of deep breaths roll. Carbon dioxide and oxygen equal time out here, at the bottom of this boat. My breaths drift upward, the sky crashes down.
If storm clouds approach, I will not fear them. When the deep trees of the coastline grow closer, I will not know. If a brilliant orange streak pierces the eggplant veil covering the sky for centuries, I will not see it.
Here I do not know the water at my fingertips or the uneasy swaying of the boat.
Living here at the bottom of this boat, all I know is the backs of eyelids, clamped hands over ears and liquid motion.
Carbon dioxide and oxygen meet and exchange conversation in the air.
Inhale: "Am I there yet?"
Exhale: "Have I reached the end of it?"