I was driven to the darkest depths of the world without consent. The red bull drove me to the ends of the earth, and I thought I would drowned at sea in the declination of its night, but I discovered my weakness could swim, or, at the least, float.
Like a message in a bottle, the inner whispers of my soul were trapped behind the glass, and I needed only to drift ashore into the hands of man for my words to be heard. But how could I reach the sand when I hadn’t a paddle to row me? And the wind was hiding, playing a game with the current, leaving it still in its quietness.
When my lungs absorbed the water like tears soaking into paper, the words I breathed became faint, like the ink that has held onto a page for a many of days that transformed into a many of years.
To find oneself lost at sea is saddening, however, never as maddening as discovering one’s way of words have lost their translation over time; for when I found land, the people could not understand my archaic language.
Why had I bled out a story over that length of time if not a man could interpret the wounds inflicted upon my travels?
Nay! I do not believe not one can read me, but instead I believe I have washed up upon a foreign shore, and these indigenous people
are not learned in the traumas I pour forth.