sailboats.

 i was never really fond of boats.

in fact, at night i would keep all my stuffed animals close to me under the covers, pretending the bed was a boat on the sea. an endless sea with no direction. i somehow had intense concern for all of the said stuffed animals and kept them around me, constructing a sort of rectangular cockpit around myself with pillows. i felt a sharp glow of safety, in the wayless water.

i do not enjoy the uncertainty of boats. my mother told me to drive the oars properly. to not stand, lest it alters the center of gravity of the boat, having a possible consequence of upturn. my boat did not have oars. and my boat had me anchored to itself. 

for me, emotions were a game of chance. i hope no one ever goes through the drowning. when the boat turns and the oxygen is stolen from your lungs, only to be spat back into your face. the worst part is, there is no pain. it is similar to drowning, if you ever have. the numbness, the apathy, the hope bubbling out of your lips like air inside water. helpless. it was a sadistic paralysis.

if you think the coin might have been shinier on the other side, you are mistaken. days boiled with rage and intensity and unpredictability and impulsivity. the emotions poured out of me like a soldier's blood onto the ground. all those that had been suppressed. 

i was the emblem of instability. the mirror called me my father.

another reason i dont like boats is because i was the only one who could never make a paper boat in class. i would beg my fellow classmates to make one for me and i would draw on them. i drew in them life and brought them back home. 

boats reminded me of what i was. emotionally dependent.

i remember my mother and me sitting in a restaurant, my frustrated father on the other side mumbling to himself. i picked up a tissue paper from the holder and handed one to my mother. she could make wonderful boats. i liked pretending the red tablecloth was a sea, and the salt shaker was an island. i played with my boats in the corner as my father got up to meet his friends. my mother stirred the straw on a fresh lime soda too sweet. she didnt like it too sweet.

for a while, i envied her hands and how she could twist paper into art. ma always told me i could do better. that hurt not because i was crappy at making boats. but because it meant that what she had created towered over a girl i had built over time.

in all fairness, although i disliked the idea of a boat, i had never felt safe anywhere else. with my little people, in my boat, far away from places and ideas, and lives and deaths. in a sea. in an ocean, perhaps. i refused the idea of passengers getting off the boat. no. i hated it.

my boat, i howl. nobody leaves. 

apologies if i got carried away again. 

did you know paper boats could also serve as little hats ? i felt funny when i realized that. 

i open my eyes and the sea is gone. it is all floor. it is all tiles. i hear my organs wail and it is not cinematic. it goes under your skin and stays there until you are frightened.

i ask myself again, were you pretending not be real again ?