Sailing to Monoceros

Up to this point in my journey, although I often get queasy on my prognostic cruise through life, I ve been able to steer a safe voyage. Even though maintaining an even keel wasn t easy, I secured the ballast on my own. Minor bumps and bruises from the rolling waves, never altered my itinerary. Now I find the jig is up, along with the untamable flapping jib. I m typing this now, sitting alone at the kitchen table, on a Sunday evening. A scary warning hitched a ride with this morning s sunrise and beeped me a jangling S.O.S. Batten down the nauseous hatches sailor, a tempest brews in your coffee pot. How can I navigate the crest of a mile-high whitecap? Signals predict an explosion with more foam than a Colgate shaving cream factory. My long overdue Ship of Life upchuck can no longer be controlled with Tums. Journal, you are my benevolent port of refuge. Under your warm and endless blank sheets, a girl can weather the worst of squalls. With you as her sanctuary, she s captain of her protected literary craft. Her pen will always obey orders, because she controls the strokes. There will never be mutiny, while she is at the helm. You crave incessant thespian whining in the same way that she craves succulent sweet strawberries, dipped in melted milk chocolate. In friendly addition, when she divulges her long list of daily grievances, you won t make that asinine wisecrack. I speak of the grammatically in arrears as well as disgusting retort full of typical nincompoopery, Shove yuh gripes where sun don t shine. A journal gives its author unlimited space to be obnoxious. Unlike some significant others, her sounding board validates a need for histrionics that raise the house roof. A journal is privy to the real reason why its writer hosts those tightfisted rage parties the ones without any refreshments. As a convenient result, she can lift her journal s roof, any old time she wants. She knows that no matter how much of her understanding literary accommodation caves in later on due to her temperamental aerobics it will stick around for the messy cleanup, without any usual guilt-provoking conditions. This point is truer than ever, when she suffers from unforgiving mental fatigue. Sitting on the bed, with her open journal on her lap, she s aware of the pen slipping from her cramped fingers. This exhausted writer can only cry herself to sleep. Throughout the dark night, her tolerant journal waits alongside its worn-out author, who, wrung dry, is now in deep slumber except sleep is brief. All too soon, her alarm clock decrees another round of difficult daylight, while tousled hair burrows into that still-saturated pillow. She s one of those frantic mice, in the direct sight of Farmer Gray s legendary shotgun.