I genuinely miss the proverbial good ol' days. A much simpler time when my only pre-occupation was what I was going to have for supper and what route I was going to take on on my "epic Sunday drive" through familiar haunts. A time where my only ambition in life was buying a used compact mid-executive and having permanent residence in a developed country with good infrastructure. Good b-roads, scenic drives and a great burger place at either end of the journey. Then the cracks appeared in my little pocket dimension. All the noise that had been filtered out of my bubble where time stood still started seeping through newly created fissures. At first there were gentle trickles. Then reality came rushing in. The pocket dimension collapsed in on itself and I was swept out into the harsh reality of being. Saddled with knowledge Truth became an unbearable burden.
Having cobbled together a makeshift raft on this tempestous sea the only instict was to survive. Stay afloat long enough and not drown in a sea of lies. Then I looked around and realised that bodies were strewn across the vicinity. Some paddling water, most drowning. Victims of this preternatural storm. This sea of lies consumed all. However, my internal compass seemed to point to true north. An invisible string that pulled me across the sea. Restless, tiring nights as wave after wave crashed into my little vessel yet the pieces of timber held steadfast. Then I saw it in the horizon. Cresting each wave and all around me. Other makeshift rafts seemingly heading in the same direction. Other voyagers. Hundreds perhaps thousands of us afloat in this sea of ruin. Guided by an invisible hand. Not unified in purpose yet drawn by the same calling. The gentle song of the lady Truth.
Image Credit: Ship Graveyard, Steve Klit (Pinterest).
