drifting

At the end of The Winter of Our Discontent, by John Steinbeck, the main character slips into the ocean, slits his wrists and lets his life drift off with the waves. I can’t get the image out of my head. That idea of absolute surrender. I’m not…strong…enough for self-harm, but the idea of it greatly intrigues me. There’s something about that control. About belonging completely to yourself. If no one and nothing else mattered but the pure feelings of your own mind and body… Yes, pure. Sometimes I think I’d like a pure life. Drifting with the sea of time with no homeland in sight. Be what I want. Travel on a whim. Maybe alone. Maybe not. It wouldn’t matter. Only I would matter. I would matter to me. I would be enough. And that would be enough.

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