“When are we getting off of this ship?” someone asks. I say nothing, per the recent routine.

It was April when we boarded. two-ish months later, I am surrounded by a blue that stretches on for miles, and it feels like all I have ever known. It’s hard to listen to the sounds I’m now used to—the creaking of the ship, the strike of the waves against the hull, the calling gulls, and the deep inner chatter.

The calmer I remain, the smoother the waters.

It was a sacrifice, wasn’t it? It was a sacrifice that got us on this ship. It was a sacrifice I did not know we would have to make during what still feels like my early days. Snatched from my hands was something I did not know I held, and I continue my journey, empty-handed, lighter, uncalibrated, and strange. Changed.

We charted no route and hastily boarded for departure.

Looks like rain today. I would welcome it.

No one argues. It’s quiet. The days are full and slow, always with leftover things to do tomorrow.

It’s impossible to sit still (we are on a ship, after all).

But we’re still here, ramping up and raging on.

We’re still here.

It can feel like a lot of nothing when you travel on a ship. Similar sights and salty scents warp the days from long into ceaseless. Sleep decides when the sun sets, not the other way around.

We’re still moving.

We barely feel the travel.

I don’t know when I’m getting off, but I’ll know it when I see it. I have to.

“Soon,” I finally say. “I think we’re almost there.”

^{June 6th, 2024}

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