my coming of age celebration was a voyage across the ocean.
others saw an effortless row across the tranquil waters, the tips turned a gleaming white by the cheerful rays of the compassionate, warm sun.
they saw that the small boat i had been given to row across the sea had been somehow exchanged for an elegant yacht, by only a swift, simplistic negotiation.
they believed that while i refuted their beliefs, contesting that my travels had been my most complex era of those i had lived, that i was simply fabricating a minor inconvenience into a life altering epiphany.
they believed that i had not truly lived yet.
i felt the rage coursing through my veins, stinging every last inch of me with a brutal contempt as i contemplated informing them of the truth.
i hadn't simply ended up on the other island after receiving a yacht.
i had paddled through a storm, purple lines of lightning brusquely ambushing the waters.
a resounding thunder amplified its deafening expression of indignation, shaking the rise and fall pattern of the ocean.
the waves, unable to maintain their previously consistent rhythm, rose sharply and suddenly.
an abrupt rod of lightning vitalized the water in front of where i struggled, capsizing my boat and catapulting my frail frame into the air.
i hit the water with a forceful impact, feeling a few of my bones shatter on instant. it sent a piercing pain throughout.
a cluster of cargo ships casually progressed a few hundred feet away from where i was positioned. at the top of my lungs, i screamed, pleading for someone to cast a rope in my direction.
i can assure that they noticed me, that they saw my state of a torturous, agonizing helplessness. however, it would have inconvenienced them to assist me, it would have placed a speed table in the center of their road to practicality and productivity, therefore a few of them simply projected ineffective phrases of affirmation, while the remaining sped right past me, failing to acknowledge me by stating the justification that they simply did not notice the drowning child.
i hadn't simply received a yacht.
i crafted the sturdy, extravagant ship using the remains of my own broken bones.
i attached them by solidifying my tears, freezing them using the chilling responses i received from those who i informed of my conditions.
i kept myself warm using the fire in my own heart, once i chose to refrain from wasting it to sear the skin of others, who i felt did not understand my affliction, instead transferring it to those who underwent more exigent circumstances than i had.
it wasn't simply crafted for me.
and now, although i am safe on the shore
though i have an endless amount of fire to provide warmth to those who are currently out at sea.
something remains out of place.
when my friends and family come to visit me in my yacht, i sit on my stool for hours, conversing, socializing, assisting.
i don't believe that they have perceived the fact that i have never once stood up.
i like to think that once they leave, they believe that i am planted on my two feet, completing the chores and maintaining the boat.
but when one's bones are used to build their sanctuary, compacted somewhere within the walls surrounding them, rather than in their customary location, their legs
it isn't exactly possible to stand.
i consider beginning the search for my bones
tearing apart the walls, turning my yacht on its side
but it has become my surface
the moment it breaks, i will return to the open waters once more.
and i don't believe that i am strong enough to traverse them all again.
