If life were an ocean, I would be a rudderless boat

Everyday is a struggle. Me against myself. My conscious mind against the unconscious fears that clog my mind; weeding them out is task, for they hide in plain sight, just not visible to my foggy vision. A thousand anxieties weigh down my thoughts. What for, I know not. They both jerk me into action and yet glue my feet to chains unknown. I am at once action and inaction. It is most disconcerting.
There was a time when I knew my heart, my dreams, my aspirations. Now, I have leeches sucking the very colour out of them. Today, those dreams lie untouched, gray and lifeless, their presence long forgotten. The sad part? Those leeches are not strangers. They are part of my own skin and bone.
And a heaviness sets in my bones, like the body of a tired 70-year-old.
I set about my monotonous chores, like a machine keyed to a default setting. Drifting along in the river of time, with no anchor, no sense of direction, rudderless and worse yet, no determination to set my own course. For you only fix your journey once you know your destination, and I know not mine. Even short-term stops defy me.
Until then, I submit to the shallow whims and fancies that catch my attention, each lasting a mere seconds in the wider scheme of things. It’s like the boat goes right when the current wants, and then left when the wind blows through the sails. The ship is left onto the mercy of nature. Who knows where it will all lead to?
And here, I lay in the deck, watching through unseeing eyes, all the while thinking:
Where am I? What am I doing?
Who am I really?


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