My mind feels like a ship on a sea, always moving, sailing somewhere, maybe towards a storm, maybe towards solace. The masts are strong but they are starting to get more tattered with age, rage and vulnerabilities. How much longer? How much longer? Will I sleep in a ship port of peace with other ships that just rest there? The ship bottom is plastered in barnacles and old hopes that were hidden like treasure on the ship. You mean to tell me that the treasure wasn’t at the bottom of the sea tucked away in a chest, but the treasure was attached to the bottom of me?
About the Creator
Rowan Finley
Father. Academic Advisor. Musician. Writer. My real name is Jesse Balogh.
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