life on the water

It seems we're nothing more than a passenger on this sailboat.

All the waves crash without our input or reasonable notice. We are left to fend for ourselves and react quickly to the changing tides.

And yet somehow, that makes sense. I'm kind of glad that's how it is, even if the realization is terrifying.

I make plans for where I want the ship to head next. But it may not listen, and it often doesn't.

Instead, it takes me to an island I never knew existed. For the best, usually, but not always. You can't win them all.

This may seem like rambling, because it is.

The ship rambles too: swaying under the starlight, yet above the abyss beneath.

Perfectly balanced between light and dark.

It's all too easy to forget: Life sits on a knife's edge.

That very fact provides all the excitement but also all the suffering. All the pleasure and all the pain.

Where the ship lands next, like the distance to the moon, is out of our reach.

It just is.

You can control your reaction to this news, if this is news to you.

You can choose to fight and salvage what control you think you have. Or you can drift with the sea.

That may be the only choice you get.