LETTERS FROM THE OUTER CONTINENTAL SHELF
[ENCLOSED: CORRESPONDENCE FROM A PEREGRINATION IN THE GULF OF MEXICO]
VOLUME I: headtrip
Twenty-first of September, 2023; Cruising Grounds
To Ishmael,
The trick to life is one of balance, of swimming in the stream of consciousness, not struggling blindly against the cycle of time, the unconquerable mountain. Question the fundamental makeup of existence, discover all existence balances on a razor’s edge — that sliver of spacetime we call the present. The malleability of time is elucidated in the relinquishing of control. Surrendering to a fated existence grants the illusion of freewill and ultimate responsibility.
Here lie waters perilous to the unlearned mind, the bed in which genius and madness lie with a comfort born of a loving devotion to the game. Existence a game indeed — a hoax, a comedic tragedy, a fantasy, a headtrip. Beyond lies the key to infinite youth, wisdom, life!
•••
Twenty-second of September, 2023; Cruising Grounds
Approaching the mark of twenty-four hours at sea and all is well. My comfort rises with the tide, with the excitement of uncertainty; but I find myself oddly withheld, bound up in bouts of restlessness and unsteady pause. My liberation is weighed down by loose ends nagging at the edges of my vision; the stark clarity of the horizon a glaring reminder of abandoned responsibilities, of the paralysis of infinite choice ahead. My peace remains imprisoned by adrenaline; the heat has yet to disperse from my burns, the marks of the cause. Every shadow on the horizon appears as a ghastly threat from on high — God arriving to strike me down in an unjust, misdirected maelstrom of misery. My absconding from the prison in which I woke is slowed by vice and vanity. But I am no longer encircled in Dante’s feverish hellscapes, I need not envision demons in the eyes of every lover, every friend and brother.
The land I have left is scorched by memories, littered with the bodies of past selves that recklessly plunged headlong into the fray, desperate to hold back the cleansing flood which brought to fruition a beautiful life but which destroyed all that was. The waves erode away the iron coast which fades slowly into indiscernible myth and legend, the bedrock of my psyche forged through trial and triumph. I find my ears still ringing, my hackles still raised. My feet are leaden, my shoulders sag under the weight of survivor's guilt. Perhaps I was the only one, perhaps the others had to fade away, to be crushed by the relentless grindstones of a dying system. These ruminations do little to settle my stomach, the guilt rises and catches in my throat with every breath of ocean air.
This mourning is the beginning of the grand adventure of life, a time of gratitude, remembrance, and respite. To become one with existence, to heal and to grow, will require a final destruction of my ego, a dissolving of illusions fabricated by my theories of the minds of others. I am changing, becoming something beautiful, something complex and wonderful, weathered and strong, resilient and powerful. This is a result of all that has been, all that I’ve loved and learned, experienced and forgotten. I’ve faced adversity in an infinite many forms and moved through it, with it, because of it.
•••
Twenty-third of September, 2023; Cruising Grounds
It is no easy thing to feel at odds with one’s own being, to live in a state of constant turmoil. Years spent hiding from myself, frantically running in search of what was always within, I turned my back on my identity in a quest to find it. I cast off to drift on waves of uncertainty, seeking the safety of the harbor I left behind. If I had turned my eyes inward, I would have found myself at home in the presence of something beautiful — my soul.
Burn brightly as the sun you’ve always been, don’t hide your light from eyes closed to your brilliance. This same essence resides in us all, every soul a unique aperture through which it shines. Now, more than ever, the universe needs the light — never dim it or let it die. Breathe, smile, laugh in the face of death; be gentle for the world is cruel, men are harsh, and children look on as we lose our sense, as we forget who we are, who we were meant to be.
•••
Twenty-fourth of September, 2023; Cruising Grounds
I find myself pressed firmly against the boundaries of my resolve, hopelessly struggling against tide and time. Each plunge of the bow into these troubled waters sends my wits writhing about in search of a shred of sanity, each broadside swell smashing against the hull renews the never-ending ringing in my ears, emboldens the clutch of anxiety in my chest.
I seek stillness, a stable horizon unafflicted by the tempestuous wrath of whichever god condemns me with every gust of wind. Reprieve is the farthest thing from me, somewhere beyond the reach of several days’ voyage, rest will not find me under these ominous thunderheads a thousand miles from home.
When did I lose appreciation for the glorious, unbridled power of a storm? When I laughed full in the face of a hurricane? If I am to live, I must know what it is to pass through the eye, to drown, to die at sea. All that is merely endured is unlived — a pointless exercise of suffering. Joy is a practice, not an assumption.
I await for sleep to overtake me.
•••
Fourth of October, 2023; Mississippi Delta
[Upon returning to shore] Peace. Calm. Inhale. Exhale. Listen to the crash of the waves, the cries of ospreys overhead. See the glint in the eye of the sandpiper whose foraging grounds you’ve intruded upon. The world is at an end here, desolate calm brought on the breath of the ocean, tidings from distant depths from whence I’ve returned. Here, the perspective is shifted, grown fuller by the fetch of water over which the breeze travelled. I am renewed and revitalized, lifted on raptor’s wings to soar or roost as I please. Bound to an endless sway no more, my horizon has leveled. I fill my lungs with the salt of the tide and dig my toes deep in the sand. Today, I am grounded, my world is bounded, I am free.
With love and gratitude,
SEP
more letters coming soon...