Dualities of a Mind

I’m stuck, sailing, trapped in an ocean of blue. 
 I’m the lone truck in a desert, on the long haul through winding roads.
 My eyes are set on the distant horizon, only keeping that goal of reaching a further future in mind. 
 The heat on the sand makes my vision dizzy, the motions of the oceans makes me push on.
 Harder, I row, faster, I drive. My eyes narrow in the sunlight, my eyes squint at the stars, just making out that horizontal line.
 From time to time, I take that brief moment to look in the mirror, not to see what’s behind or around me, but to see my reflection. I peer over the side of the boat, and see the face of a man holding on. I look in that wing mirror, seeing the Robinson Cruso of the mobile sorts. I’m an island in motion, a lone nomad. I’m a drop in the ocean, far from any other ripples.

From time to time, I see the cargo I haul, see that I have everything at my finger tips. At least, everything I’ve tried to remember. Fuel, food, things to get me by, keep my mind off of the numbing determined barreling down the highway. I see hitchhikers, I see messages in bottles, I see flares and distant RVs. Lights in the distance of dark expanse screaming out for help, for company, for anyone, for defiance against the darkness threatening to swallow it all up around it. Maybe they see me as the same.

I bob and weave, the motions used to make me sick but now I’ve gotten used to them. Thinking how hard it was to start but how easy the brain gets dulled to continued nature around it. 
 But you’re my oasis, that diner off of the interstate. You’re the salvation to my sanity of the late shift. You’re the cuppa joe that keeps me going even though I hate coffee. You’re the friendly face, the voice on the radio that keeps my arms from giving up on these oars. You’re that waitress who knows my “usual”.

And yet, here I am still trapped. Trapped not knowing what I want, but knowing I must go forward. The horizon is where I need to be. I’m comfortable in my surroundings now, but still never comfortable in my own skin. I take a break from the oars, see my burnt tanned skin. I peel some of it off, mostly out of boredom. But deep down inside there’s that bit that wants to rend the flesh off, more than just mere layers. But my rationale logically resounds back, “But how will you row without muscles?”
 I pout, chewing gum, looking idly in the rearview mirror again, “God, you’re ugly.”
 And yet, here I am still stuck, wondering… what do I want other than to move forward? What do I want? What I want? I want? … Do I even want? Well… yes, right now I want to listen to some Opera, but my favourite track of German Metal is playing and I cannot dishonour it… I’d love some biltong but the seagulls ate my last stick till I can reach a port again. I want… what I really want is to make up my mind, more so about the grand scheme of things rather than what my stomach and ears want. I wish I knew… I wish… I wish I knew if I was a truck driver or a boatman. On a long haul. I wish I knew.

I know I’m duty bound to be in this cab, duty bound to ride the oceans. But towards what? When I reach that horizon, what then? I’m only duty bound to using this truck to fuel my own dreams and wishes. But what did I mortally dream of before being marooned at sea? Where did I wish to be? I am trapped, I am stuck.

I want so much out of life, and yet I want nothing. I’m in two places at once, polar opposites clashing. Sometimes as calm as a desert, others raging like an ocean. I know not which one is better, and cannot help but panic as to which one I prefer. Both make me happy and jealous of the other choice. So instead of being stuck moving, I’m here… sitting, typing and motionless after this full stop.

Like what you read? Give Wes Hall a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.