I don't know what to do
I sit at my ocean, as I always do, and I know the telltale signs of brewing storm. It is coming quick, and I can almost smell that salty wind that heralds it.
I know the signs, I can predict the movements of winds and gathering waves.
Should I run?
There are people pulling me away to the sure safety of the firm land. They offer to share their life with me, the hard labor, beset by a helping hand, a rich bounty of the soil watered by sweat of one's brow.
And yet here I sit, under the falling rain, waiting for the waves to claim me, unable to unbind myself from my self. Without the ocean I am merely a man, and I am not sure that this is something I would want to be.
Should I push them away, bite the hand stretched to help me?
I can push them away, and stay here forever, until my god claims me for the abyss of it's depths, storms left far above. The stillness and quiet forever, a watery grave of darkness and silence.
And yet, why is there fear rising from within me, a perfect symmetry of the coming wave?
I cannot live in the ocean and I am not sure that I am willing to let go of the shore.
Should I ride the storm, grabbing the bull of Poseidon by his horns?
I do not know how to do that, the glorious blasphemy of man challenging his god is beyond me. A boy cannot change the course of the ocean, especially no t without a sturdy ship and a crew.
I am no sailor and I do not have a heart for this.
So here I am, sitting ashore, and throwing the stones I know will do nothing against what is coming, locked in thought.
And I don't know what to do.