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It's the last evening of the year as I write this, and I feel my mind is perhaps a bit of a mess.
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I feel psychologically, mentally emotionally beaten about, a tiny yacht on a vast, stormy sea.
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To go on, there are dual, necessary, but opposed needs.
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To the first, I need to rest.
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Exhaustion helps no one, and to face the ocean worn and tired is to invite mistakes: the sea is a harsh mistress after all, and surely won't forgive.
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To this end, I heave-to, retreat inside and light the hearth.
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Outside the watery turmoil abates none, but from inside the cabin that's no concern of mine.
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Now far into this voyage, I turn to my habitual comforts to whittle away minutes, hours and days in the pursuit of trite dopamine hits from the eternal entertainment matrix.
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In the moment, there's a respite, an absence of exhaustion, of concern, of anxiety or worry, but an absence is all it is: there's no recovery or improvement.
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As a smoker is relieved in the moment by a rush of nicotine, to dip into my own coping mechanisms is alluring, relieving, but ultimately futile.
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It's a pattern I should know: I smoked for years, and ultimately kicked it.
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To smoke from time to time isn't a failure - I've not resorted to the habit.
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I steal away hours in the night, feeling that I'm clawing back my sense of self-evident existence, but come the morn I am where I already was, still at sea, without a horizon in sight.
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I know that which brings me joy and growth is that which I create, explore, learn and do anew.
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I know concurrently that mine habit this outcome will not provide: but I remain stuck in my own animal desires and complexes, unable to crack the cycle with any frustratingly logical analysis.
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To the second, I need to progress.
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Every moment I spend warming myself in the cabin, buried under blankets and ignoring the maelstrom on the other side of the hull, is a moment I don't spend moving.
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I don't know that the voyage will ever end, that I may ever sight land on the horizon, but how sad it would be to be equipped with a sail and to sit still.
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I know that to push my own endurance, will and ability is a pursuit and goal in itself.
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To move, to be swift, to strike out for somewhere new is that which has brought me the greatest joy and meaning I've ever known.
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The more I practice, learn and endure, the faster I will go, the easier it will be.
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The calculus is clear: go out into the storm.
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Go out into the wind and the rain and the dark and the cold and face it, travel and progress regardless.
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The hearth will always be there, but I will not.
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If I do not go now, tomorrow, and every moment I can, how can I ever excuse what might have been, but is not?
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ktyl