Open the floodgate.

This is an excerpt from my personal log on November 23, 2013, this is my second day away from Someday, I anchored alone in Upper Dowry Creek (35.535334,-76.534005 on google maps).

Sitting down to dinner, cheese mashed potatoes, hot sauce, bread, koolaid; and the rain is just starting to patter down on deck. A fiberglass fencing foil sits opposite me, wedged in behind the starboard cushions with the other detritus of my trip so far, tiller pilot, welcome packet, lantern battery, lengths of rope, all tossed haphazardly in exactly the same place every time; in the way, clutter organized only by my memory. I find my self wondering if Don's boat ever looks like this.
I wonder sometimes if Shawna would have enjoyed this. I don't think she would. Today I don't feel so alone as I usually do. I am not sure why. Maybe for the first time in a while I'm excited to be in my own head, alone with thoughts I haven't been able to think or write down in almost four years.

Anger, addiction, sex, emotion,
affliction, reaction, depression, obsession,
novice, expert, what's the distinction?
Distraction, extraction, compensation, too much
too late to save that attachment.
House and Hope, home's a boat
to run and hide from my Hyde
and turn back pages of endless rages
while I look on to where I've gone
and future hides behind my back.
I turn, and turn from where I've turned to
there's another bridge I've burned through.
Body, mind, rebel at self, yet cling
and climb on selfish self
looking for pity instead of help.
Who am I to run away instead
of seeing every Sunday, the face I loved
 and broke and lost for want of
self restraint? I'm gone. I'm lost.
I see only water, leaves, and shore
home is homeless, home is nowhere.
Possessions and professions possessing expressions
trapping our hearts and hands,
turning towards the things of man.
We are lost, I see no hope, save the
symbol I tow behind my boat.
Cassandra, destroyer of men,
followed by tiny Hope again.

No perfection, just direction.
Pointed South but still aimless
they know my boat but I am nameless.
No song, no voice, just rig and hull.
Syrens call; their teeth are dull.
Eyes bright with other prizes I sit by in silence.
I want to want it, the bars and beer,
women, pool, stolen showers, dinghy too.
I can't, they're not for me,
they're idol's food unfit to eat.
I have no place where I belong.
You have kids and I float on.
I'm old. Even strangers see that I am
older than my body's life span.
My beard is grey with lives gone.
My eyes hide, in blue, their storms.
I shiver even when I'm warm
and dream of things I've never known.
The question, it seems, is, "When was home?"