I was sailing blind, sailing starless, drifting sail-less through black water. I had cast my lot in with the sea spirits. I was navigating by soul. I trusted my instinct, and that perhaps is the greater problem. “Trust” and “Tryst”, separated by just one letter, by just one phonemic variable, not even a whole phoneme…a phonemette.
They were the same once, you know. A thousand years ago, they were both part of the same covenant. The same firmament. Yet now they have grown apart. How much difference a tiny tail can make.
One is still safe, still held close to the heart like the dampened handkerchief of a grieving widow. The other a whispered promise of danger, of discovery, of the groping, panting wantons pressed together in the shadows of the alley behind the public house.
Though I sail sightless, I hear waves lapping at the bowsprit, the creak of the ship’s boards, the flapping of the sails, slapping flaccid against the mast. What moon and stars there might have been obliterated by heavy clouds. And there I drift, left to the fishes and the wishes and the sea. This is journey’s antithesis; this is adventure’s enmity.
Do you know what you do not want?