I am not entirely sure how to bring this ongoing last stage of my journey back to you. I have written about the routine and the forced rest days, but all of it seemed to already drift away somewhere.
The days started to merge, the nights are getting confused. The hours spent on the water feel as if there was no break for sleep in between them anymore. The time on land is now to be measured with shortcomings and number of items forever lost.
The same routine that allows to finish the days with a feeling of achievement, makes them look so much alike. As if I’m lost in a pile of mixed slides, trying to make some sense of them. The memory brings back the frames: the rocks, the beaches, the trees and the cliffs, but where was it? And when?
It finally began, the journey I’ve been waiting for, the journey that I feared. Slowly I detach myself from the landscape letting it entertain my senses as I step deeper inside, where something unknown awaits.
Inevitably I’ve lost that initial naivete in which I thought there are no expectations, no notions to be had. I keep learning about their existence as they break to pieces, one by one, being proven false. And so I carry the broken fragments of small disappointments, dragging them behind until the water turns into mud and I can’t go any further.
How many things to relinquish, how many to reconcile, how many emotions to be purged in order to loose that dead weight. Oh the anger I feel towards inanimated objects, the conversations, no! Arguments I have with the Sea and the Wind! The battle lost at the start. And my fits – how grotesque they have to seem to those rocks, those beaches, those trees and those cliffs.
And yet, the end of the day brings the flame of euphoria: today I won again, I won with my weakness, with my fear, with myself.
It finally began, the journey, from which I don’t wish to return, even though I already see the end – the dry land.
