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The Problem With Boats (Anatomy of a Trigger).

Most people gaze at a boat and envision a peaceful transition. The life of Riley, so to speak, a source of leisure to those who develop an eye for discerning life’s curveballs, having acquired the patience to stand fast and engage each moment with ease. Curveballs are dealt with as a continuous target for those people, easy to track, with time to anticipate a changing trajectory.

There is no such time for me. Boats remind me of stagnant, tedious blots on a graph where coordinates are analyzed in terms of what-if scenarios and then replotted after a time-lapsed delay. It’s true; I’ve gotten better at interpreting the relativity of life’s nuances, but each second of a challenging situation involves an emotionally overpowering manifestation of subtle creepy memories. The resolution of any given issue leaves me wondering if I’m genuinely a survivor of the circumstances that bind me to that memory. Did I successfully move on, or am I merely a chain reaction of mental mutations akin to a virus destined to be tossed and turned from host to host until nothing is living on which to feed?

So, in boats packed with memories, I drift to mind-numbing camping excursions with my abuser, and from there, time extends til now; my thoughts bend to correct the trajectory of the outcome of the issue that has me triggered. While my brain does its tactical update, I feel as though my skin stretches and cracks. I morph in and out of parched, warped images of my past, splayed, I imagine, for all to see on an archaic maligned canvas. By the time I engage the cause at hand, it is over, a swing, and a — — well, it depends on one’s point of view, whether it’s a hit or a miss. Thank goodness for that sliver of salvation; relatively is my favorite drug.

Moreover, there is no time for lessons learned before being off to the next mental excursion; instead, I tinker with the remnants of afterthought that eerily linger like a mirage over a scorched bereft highway. It’s the afterthought that haunts me. Memories hunt me like a curse, even penetrating my sleep to prove there won’t be an escape, not even in my most profound lucid dreams.

It’s enough to make me feel lone despair, brimming with a feeling of emptiness. I am a convict sentenced to maintain an infinite bridled rage, endeavoring to outsail a maelstrom while being stymied on a clumsy, sluggish boat.

Yes, to me, boats are quite the word problem. I define them as vehicles that take me to all the places we would never find on a map.

From: My Daily Brainstorms

I mine my psyche and excavate what seems essential. I’ve learned not to linger. These things go on a shelf like souvenirs or proof of discovery.

Joejohn Black

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