Atlas

The ocean is calm and caesious as I venture out into an abysmal metaphor. The sun is blindly hiding behind the clouds, coldly grey in an artist's palette of depressed watercolors. 

Where I am is warm. There's teak paneling and the smell of tea effervescently floating in and out, as if to impress and reflect the waves dancing their own fanciful foxtrot below. My sweater is cream, a cable knit. It keeps the cruel chilling wind out of my bones. I stretch my neck and feel it's coolness. I can see it's reflection in the window; it's pale and defined. My fingernail raps on collarbone and runs it's way horizontally as I consider the poetic archetype of all those to perceive life like this before I.  

The waves below are starting to riot as a gale picks up. The clouds ahead swirl around deceptively. They curl into each other tightly; like they're trying to hide from the chaotic winds or the amass of devastation barely keeping afloat.

And I emphasize with poor Atlas; the weight of the world upon his shoulders. The oceans that run down his shoulder blades, the rock that cuts his neck. How he can not say or imagine an apology; how he gets none in return. How he is forgotten; dredged to exist in the mist of oblivion and solace. How the world is ignorant on behalf of him. How apathy is the worst creature of existence; how it cuts through your soul with teeth of pure ivory and malice. Oh how I feel for Atlas. 

The albatross calls overhead. It's screeches sound like shouts of pain. It calls out ow and yow and the sound cascades down, penetrating even the deepest, vague and somber depths of the ocean. 

I sigh and look out the windows once more. It's raining now; hard and heavy like the force inside my head and the tears down my cheeks. The ocean is rampart now. It turns like my stomach and the crashing waves wreck havoc upon the boat and my soul. 

My mouth is cold and arid, like I've just swallowed ice. I run a hand over my neck once more, poetically tracing out my path of destruction. 

I slowly get up and trace my fingerpads across the workings of the helm. They trail languidly as if confessing long forgotten sins. I walk through the door and grab the docking rope. Although I don't plan on docking any time soon.

For I'm heading into the eye of the squall hanging calmly.