Early Morning, the 2nd Month
The sun is high in the sky, beating down on the back of my neck and making this labor even more strenuous and laborious than it should be. Still, I can't begrudge it. It's a warm welcome, literally, considering the constant dampness that feels like it's seeped through my skin and into the very marrow of my bones. The air stinks of mildew and salt and wood rot, and there's hardly space to think in between the ceaseless nattering of my new companions. Needless to say, I'm right at home.
I've traded my pen for a pair of gloves these days. It's strange how quickly these hands have grown accustomed to something new after a decade of the same-old usual (that's an exaggeration, I know). Some days it's easy to pretend that this is just the plateau phase of another adventure, and any moment I'm going to hear the call and suddenly rush off again with hardly a word to not wait up for me. Then, I remember where I am, and why I'm here, and I can't imagine a single thing that could be more important to me.
I long for little in terms of company nowadays, as mentioned earlier. Many of them are true-blue sailors, as salty as the sea itself. Some are like me, outsiders here to lend a hand and something more. All of them have lost something because of the mess I haphazardly stumbled into. And isn't that an odd feeling? I don't know what I expected the end of that voyage to look like, but I truly would've been less surprised if when I woke up back home tucked in bed I came to find that it had all been an especially vivid dream. Alas for the world, it was not.
Only once have I been asked about what's brought me here. Recitent to give out any version of that story (as I imagine even the short version would take up the better part of an afternoon, and lead to even more questions- I can't believe I've grown sick of questions!), I just said it was the least I could do. I'm not sure if they know how true that is. Is it self-centered to wonder if they recognize me, from the most recent headline or any of the ones prior? If they do, everybody's been kind enough to not mention it, which I'm grateful for. It hardly needs to be said how guilty I feel, even knowing logically it was far, far out of mine and anyone else's hands. That's another odd thing- to be real equals with a group of strangers, all there to do the same thing as me, all incredibly kind and smart and thoughtful in ways that I have trouble putting into words. My heart swells just to be around them. I don't think I'll ever stop being amazed by people, just people who can be so different and experience so much and still so often turn out kind.
Of course that applies most of all to the beautifully strong, flawed, courageous and admirable people I took that fateful voyage with. I'm forever grateful to have met each and every one of them.
To Jet... I wish you were here. I believe you're alive and out there somewhere, and that simple hope is enough to keep me waking up at the crack of dawn each morning and beginning each day over again. I still have my last letter to you, ready to deliver in-person.
I can hear them calling me back. I don't know when I'll write again- I don't feel the urge to do it as often as I did back then. Reading this all back feels like the disconjointed ramblings of a lunatic, if I'm being honest. Maybe I'm losing my touch. I think that should concern me, but it doesn't yet. I've got a lot to do, and for once none of it would be very interesting to read about. I wonder what today will bring?
Until our paths cross again,
baratheonpilled
janainaart
blakekathryn
yousharknotpass
