letting it out

I see a silent leviathan erupting from the depths of the dark and endless sea, a boiling saltwater tumor engulfing my pathetic ship of twigs. Then a raucous oil-slick laugh rings in my ears, belching forth like steam from a snake tongued mouth, acid spittle burning deep holes through flesh to my bones. I see the source of this murderous mirth towering above me. Medusa, her head a nest of serpents, her eyes shining with the knowledge of my imminent death. It is impossible for me to look away from those dark and shining eyes, and I cannot stop my flesh from slowly turning into stone, and I sink. I sink to the bottom of this frozen sea where no light can reach me.

There is no light here at all, just pitch black darkness. The light that sustains life is gone. The small flame that I have stoked for so long in my heart is dark. I can only feel and move as stone feels and moves. I was afraid, so afraid, as I set out on my journey, but there is nothing left to fear.

For too long I sailed in my ship of twigs. Twigs that I gathered from the darkest forests, from the driest deserts. Twigs that scratched my hands and drew blood. I thought my ship of twigs would allow me to reach the other side of the ocean. But even as I capsized and my mind's eye saw her face reaching out toward me with shining black eyes, I knew it was the twigs that I had gathered that had failed me, that had come apart under the strain of the waves motion.