The Rant of an Ancient Mariner.

I’m beset by a crisis at the moment: a crisis of identity, of point and purpose, of freedom. I feel like a caged animal, mentally, emotionally, and even physically. Nothing that is apparently available would come close to providing a means of escape; I know myself very well.

I’ve been here several times in my life, sitting on a painted ship upon a painted ocean and being beset by slimy things that walk with legs upon a slimy sea, waiting for a wind to fill the sails so that a course may be steered. And all the time the hunger deepens and the madness grows. The wind always rises eventually – or at least, it always did.

Sounds dramatic, doesn’t it? It is. More than that, it’s melodramatic; I’m well aware of the fact. This is no mere wallowing in the doldrums, but the holding of a mirror to view myself in context.

I’m not a wild animal, you see. The animal lives with but one imperative: to survive, and through personal survival, to contribute to the survival of its species. The human needs more. Maybe we shouldn’t, but we do. I do, and I know what gives me sustenance and what doesn’t. Most things don’t.

So there you have it: not a cry, but an observation. Rant over.