Friends

She is the cutest ever! Calm and classy. Not that you think she's a snub or something! Quite the contrary! She is so friendly and kind. Yet, she shows her affection in such a natural and graceful manner that you can't help but respecting her.

The first time I met her was 7 months and 3 days ago, when I had just moved to this new apartment I live now. I was going to the laundry when I saw her sitting in a neighborhood yard. I stopped staring at her for few seconds. She stared back, not quite interested. Actually she looked rather bored, as if she used to see astonished people staring at her.

But we got sort of friendly after a while. Nowadays every now and then that I see her sitting there I start a chat. Well, she doesn't talk so much. I say hello and ask if she's feeling good, or I may mention how beautiful she looks today, and that kind of stuff. She only listens. Or sometimes comes closer behind the fence. Gosh, so handsome she is!

Sometimes when I'm bored, or feel lonely, I imagine her walking along with me. We talk, or just walk. I'm careful that people don't hit her, or ask her to stay aside so the old lady can get off the bus, and she stays aside. I scratch her back, and she wags her tail looking satisfied.

mm... I guess I should stop now. I don't know what else to say. I'm not a writer after all. Just felt like telling you about my white fluffy friend.

نیمکت by Baran

دستش را بلند کرد و به من لبخند زد، بعد نیم چرخی زد و در شتاب جمعیت گم شد. بارانی سورمه یی رنگ و کهنه ش را تا لحظه یی هنوز می دیدم و بعد دیگر گم شد، مردی بهم تنه زد، بد جایی ایستاده بودم، نیویورک همیشه شلوغ است، اما این ساعت عصر انگار تمام شهر را صدای قدمهای شتابان و بوق تاکسی های زرد رنگ پر می کند، نمی دانستم کجا می رود، آخرین باری که دیده بودمش چند سال پیش بود، در یک مهمانی در تهران، یادم هست که آن شب بهش گفتم چیزی در نگاهت تغییر کرده و او لجظه یی متعجب نگاهم کرد بعد لبخند محوی زد و گفت :"فروغ زندگی که مرده." ته نیشخندی در کلامش بود، گفتم که نه مرگ نیست، انگار چیزی از سنخ سختی در نگاهش بود، با فشار جمعیت بی هدف در پیاده رو راه افتادم، در خلاف جهت حرکت او، رهگذرها مدام بهم تنه می زدند، اما سرم پر بود از تصویر یک بارانی سورمه یی تیره کهنه و رنگ پریده، یک بار گفت که حرفی که گفته شود مثل آبی است که بر زمین ریخته شده باشد، یادم هست درست که عذرخواهی کرده بودم و با این حال درست چند شب بعدتر در حالی حرفم را تکرار کرد که تمام چهره ش کبود و سرخ بود،روی زمین افتاده بود و به سختی نفس نفس می زد، من التماسش می کردم که بگذارد صورتش را ببینم و در همان حال با خودم فکر می کردم دارم چکار می کنم، بازی می کنم ؟ و سخت به این می اندیشیدم که کجا می توانی بگویی که بازی می کنی یا واقعیت داری وقتی که بیش از همه خودت را فریب می دهی، صدایی از من خارج می شد که التماس می کرد و سرشار ترس بود و گریه، و من فکر می کردم به لحظات نادر آگاهی که حس کرده بودم در زندگی تنها و به شکلی ماهرانه خودم را بازی داده م و اینکه ناخودآگاهم چه بازیهای قشنگی دارد، جلسه هفتگی مان بود در خانه هنرمندان ، من به پیتزای گیاهی بدمزه روی میز نگاه می کردم و کسی از فروید می گفت، فروید را دوست نداشتم، شناخت زیادی هم ازش نداشتم، فقط همیشه حس می کردم یونگ را بیشتر دوست دارم، مثل یک تعصب کور و بی دلیل، تک و توک کتابهایی که خوانده بودم یا چیزهایی که می دانستم باعث می شد فکر کنم با یونگ نزدیکترم، احساس می کردم فروید وجودم را عریان می کند و آنچنان ریشه های ساده یی نشانم می دهد که گاهی پیچیدگی انسانیم را زیر سوال می برد،آن شب هم بهش گفتم که حیف شد جلساتمان نیمه تمام ماند، مدتها ساز موسیقیش را با خودش همه جا می برد، هیچ وقت اما برایمان نزده بود، یکبار بهش گفتم نمی دانم ریشه عدم اعتمادم در خودم است یا به دیگران بر می گردد، بهش گفتم می ترسم از اینکه هر جا بروم این نفرین را با خودم ببرم، زیاد کتاب می خریدم آن روزها، انگار چیزی می جستم مدام،هنوز هم می خرم،اما خیلی اوقات نخوانده در کتابخانه می مانند، کتاب فروشی در محله گرینویچ ویلج هست که خیلی دوستش دارم، شلوغ و سرشار، کمی حتی خاک گرفته، روی پنجره از این گیاههای چسبان روییده و نور روز از لابلای برگهای آن بازی می کند و جابه جا کتابها را روشن می کند، تا مدتها کتابهای انگلیسی را که نگاه می کردم، احساس سرگشتگی می کردم، هر وقت باغ فردوس یا نیاوران برای خرید کتاب می رفتم از روی طرح کتاب، حس صفحاتش یا مترجم و یا انتشاراتش می فهمیدم دلم می خواهد آن را بخوانم یا نه، اما اینجا چند سالی طول کشید، کتابها حس خاصی بهم نمی دادند، نه بد، نه خوب، مرموز بودند، مرموز و گران تا اینکه اینجا را پیدا کردم، پیرزنی که اینجا را اداره می کرد یکجور حشونت مردانه در چهره ش داشت، زیاد حرف نمی زد، مثل بقیه فروشنده ها مدام لبخندش را در حلقومت فرو نمی کرد، کاری به کارت نداشت، انگار تو را نمی دید اصلا، تو اینجا در سکوت جزیی از کتابها و گردو خاک و نور می شدی، به دور و بر نگاه کردم، به خیابان پانزدهم رسیده بودم، صدای بوق تاکسیها در سر و صدای مردمی که در پیاده رو راه می رفتند، از کافه رستورانها بیرون می آمدند یا به درون بوتیکهای لباس فروشی می رفتند چندان آزار دهنده نبود، هوا سرد بود و مردم خود را در کتها و شالهایشان پیچیده بودند، یک لحظه احساس کردم آن طرف خیابان بارانی سورمه ییش را دیدم، اما هیکل این مرد چندین برابر او بود، بعد از جداییش یکبار برایم حرف زد، تا مدتها سکوت داشت، گریز داشت انگار، من هم آن روزها حال و روز خوبی نداشتم، آن شب در مهمانی انگار حضور نداشت، دست دراز کرد، ساز را گرفت و آن را به ملایمت نوازش کرد، نوازشی بسیار نامحسوس، مثل اشاره یی کوچک و آشنا میان دو معشوق قدیمی، گفت:" من یک لیوان دیگر قهوه می خواهم ، هستی؟" به ساعتم نگاه کردم و فکر کردم فوقش تاکسی می گیرم، شاید کمی دیر برسم، اما برایش توضیح خواهم داد، فهوه ش را کند می خورد، این کافه همانی بود که همیشه بعد از کتاب فروشی می آمدم، هیچ ارتباط واضحی نداشت اما مرا یاد نیمکتهای پشت کتابخانه معماری باغ فردوس می انداخت، معمولا اینجا می نشستم و در حالیکه کتابم را مزه مزه می کردم قهوه می خوردم، او هم میز کنار پنجره را انتخاب کرد، بهش گفتم که پای سیبهای داغ این کافه خیلی خوب هستند، عین آنهایی که آدمها را یاد مادربزرگهاشان می اندازد، هرچند که مادربزرگ من هیچ وقت پای سیب نپخته بود، خندید ، چشمهایش دیگر سخت نبود، وقتی می خندید چشمهایش همان برقی را پیدا می کردند که اولها که دیده بودمش داشتند، گفته بود می نویسم، چون کار دیگری بلد نیستم، می دانستم هیچ وقت از نوشتن دست نکشیده است، حالا دیگر کتابهای داستانهای کوتاهش چاپ هم شده بودند، اولین کتابش برنده جایزه گلشیری شده بود، من همیشه از این موفقیت کارهای اول می ترسیدم، وحشت داشتم از اینکه کارهای بعدی آدم افول کند، می ترسیدم آدم خودش را تکرار کند و یا تا آخر تلاش کند یکبار دیگر به آن جایگاه اولش برسد ولی بی حاصل، یادم هست آن شب بچه ها آنقدر سیگار کشیده بودند که حس می کردم معده م مالش می رود ، ظرف قهوه هر چند لحظه خالی می شد و من به فریاد و شوخی از کسی می خواستم که دوباره در قهوه جوش قهوه دم کند، ساکت بود، زیاد حرف نزد آن شب، نگاهش گیج بود، لحظه یی ایستادم ، گیج و گم به تابلوهای اسم خیابانها نگاه کردم، موبایلم زنگ می زد، گوشی را برداشتم:" سلام، جانم؟ می دونم،ببخش، نه واست می گم حالا...نه الان دارم تاکسی می گیرم، ...آره ترافیک بدیه، ولی دارم می آم." گوشی را گذاشتم، و به خیابان زرد و شلوغ نگاه کردم.از شش سال پیش که به نیویورک آمده بودم چیز زیادی تغییر نکرده بود، هنوز هم دوست داشتم کنار پیاده رو بایستم و سرم را بالا بگیرم و سعی کنم لابلای برجها تکه هایی از آسمان را پیدا کنم،بعد در همان حال چشمهایم را می بستم و به سر و صداهای دور و برم گوش می دادم و معمولا در پایان این کار سرگیجه می گرفتم و از ترس افتادن چشمهایم را باز می کردم. فکر کردم هنوز ساز می زند، ناخنش هنوز بلند است. دستم را برای یکی تاکسی تکان دادم، با ترمزی شدید جلوی پایم ایستاد، سوار شدم، آدرس را گفتم و بعد کتاب را از توی کیفم درآوردم، هفت داستان داشت، اولی اسمش نیمکت بود، دوماه زمان داشتم، درست تا آخر پاییز، پیش خودم مجسم کردم وارد کتابفروشیم می شوم، درست روز نوروز، و در بخش تازه ها، کتاب او را می بینم، روی جلد کتاب تصویر مردی بود با بارانی سورمه یی کهنه که تنهایی روی نیمکتی در یکی از پیاده روهای شلوغ نیویورک نشسته بود و درست عین ژولی در فیلم آبی کیسلوفسکی دستانش را از دو طرف باز کرده بود و روی لبه های پشتی نیمکت گذاشته بود و سرش را تکیه داده بود و چشمانش را بسته بود و لبخند ملایمی روی صورتش داشت. کتاب را بستم و فکر کردم اگر شبها هر شب روی ترجمه ش کار کنم تا سال نو تمام می شود.

something about home

something about an old guy waiting for the bus with his closed eyes. something about the young girl with a scorpion tattood on her half-naked breast. something about the gap between the two of them. something about the bench. something about people in the early hours of my mornings. something about waiting. something is missing, something is not there.

she says this guy wrote home is where your heart is. that's cheating. that's just not fair. it takes homelessness to a whole new level. now you need to know where your heart is before you could call anywhere home. now you should... heart?

heart. that's what's missing. it's gotta be heart. there's got to be a heart somewhere. beneath the young girl's breast. behind the old man's closed eyes. within the gap between them. a heart waiting for the bus to arrive.

something about the moment the bus arrives. same time, same place, same old man, same girl, no hearts. something about this empty bench I pass by everyday on my way to work. something about the way it catches my eyes when they're looking for signs that make them feel like home. something about a dream, when there's nothing to be seen. something about feelings, or lack thereof. something about home, nowhere to be found. something is missing. something about me.

"HIGH hopes" by Leili

Beyond the horizon of the place we lived when we were young
In a world of magnets and miracles
Our troughts strayed constandly and without boundary
The ringing of the division bell had begin

Along the long road and on down the causeway
Do they still meet there by the cut

There was a ragged band that followed in our footsteps
Running before time took our dreams away
Leaving the myriad small creatures trying to tie us to the ground
To a life consumed by slow decay

The grass was greener
The light was brighter
With friends surrounded
The night of wonder

Looking beyond the embers of bridges glowing behind us
To a glimpse of how green it was on the other side
Steps taken forwards but sleepwalking back again
Dragged by the force of some inner tide

At a higher altitude with flag unfuried
We reached the dizzy heights of that dreamed of world

Eneumbered forever by desire and ambition
Theres a hunger still unsatisfied
Our weary eyes still stray to the horizon
Though down this road weve been so many time

The grass was greener
The light was brighter
The taste was sweeter
The nights of wonder
With friends surrounded
The dawn mist glowing
The water flowing
The endless river

Forever and ever

"over the edge" by Neda

I can't stop crying. I just can't believe it. How could he leave us like that. He had his whole life ahead of him. He was just 30 years old. Full of life. Full of energy. I can barely talk about him in past tense. Three days ago he was site seeing, taking pictures of beautiful sceneries in Europe so that he could send them to his family in Canada.

It was thanksgiving long weekend, we all had pretty nice weekends. So did he, he visited his friends on Sunday and had a nice supper. Then he went to this park, apparently very beautiful and hilly, some parts have cliffs that are hundreds of feet high. He decided to take pictures with his digital camera.

Tuesday morning, I got a phone call from my friend Dan giving me the news that he has passed away. He had a hiking accident in Europe.

Cops went to his apartment in Canada, his friend Ken is still living there, he never changed his address on his driver's license even though he hasn't lived there for 9 months. They told Ken that he had a hiking accident and they found him Monday morning, he was taking pictures and he must have leaned forward too much or something and he fell off a cliff about 100 feet down.

We are all in shock, his life was good, he had just started a great job he loved, in a new country with some old friends. Things were going well. Why did it have to end so early? Why did it have to happen to him?

I have many questions, but I don't have any answers and I can't stop crying.

"Early morning wanderings of an autumnal mind" by Baran

Indeed it is autumn. She could smell the wind and the creepy coldness in the air on her way. 5:15 in the morning. Sitting on a stony bench under the ground, curved tall walls of cement are in front of her. Sleepy emotionless faces. A routine day like any other and yet there she is, carrying the remnants of her dreams in her. Her stomach turning and twisting, as if trying to get rid of worries of a bad dream. Little bits of hope sparkling like shiny dots from time to time. Her mind somewhere between the realm of reality and dreamland. Here comes the train. A row of heads leaning against windows with closed puffy eyes. She doesn't want to think about all the twists and sparkles in her stomach. It is all way too complicated. One should really struggle to open the knots, to remember where she comes from every morning are times when she remembers , but it's an estranged, exotic land, not always likeable. In fact at times pretty dark and freaky, full of distorted relationships and ridiculous worrisome events, but she knows well enough that most of the times the twists and sparkles will vanish and the picture will get clear. Like an unfocused blurry picture of the shiny world and all its issues which impose themselves on you as the "reality". And one is usually more than willing to accept it. One can even help the process, just lean on the window, close your eyes and go to a state between these two, from time to time open your eyes, a blink of reality and then close them again, let your mind digest it. One automatically knows how to do it, how to switch and one automatically misses part of her life, part of all that happens to her, shown to her...So a while has passed now, she had smelled the coldness and the wind again, and the picture is focused now. Here is what she sees: a conference room full of people ready to discuss the "real" world's issues.

"from a BOAT (6)" by Jackal

"from a BOAT (1)" by Jackal
"from a BOAT (2)" by Jackal
"from a BOAT (3)" by Jackal
"from a BOAT (4)" by Jackal
"from a BOAT (5)" by Jackal

"from a BOAT (6)" by Jackal

I think I have finally found a corner of my own here, deep in the privacy of my cabin. The hour is close to midnight but it feels like an unearthly time. The sea is calm, like a sleeping baby; there’s just the occasional tossing and turning or little splashes on the side of the boat. The constant humming of the engine is becoming a part of me. It does give a sense of continuity but hell it is still annoying. Looking outside, it’s hard to find a direction without the blinding flash of all the lights. Even the sea surface is bright white. I tried to go outside the living quarters to sit down for a moment and… flipping safety regulations don’t allow me to light up a frigging fag. So I come back here to switch all lights off and stare into nowhere. A few minutes before I was looking at the subsea camera screens; just to see some little fish flapping around, looking so shiny and white under the projectors that I couldn’t even tell their color. Too much light doesn’t even let the poor fish rest in peace, nor does it let me. But I suppose they are luckier than I am. They will have the dark, still, and comforting bottom of the sea for the rest of the year. Would it not be cool if I was a little fish? No, on a second thought, perhaps rather a big fish. Something worth catching. God I wish I was close to you in the dark…

"He came to save the earth, he got ..." by Pezhman

Widox is an alien, a good alien. He's come a very long way on a mission. And the mission is to save the human beings. Widox is tall, strong, he has charisma, he is intelligent, super intelligent, his brain pulses twice faster than those of the smartest humans. He lives a year every day.

Widox has done all his bests. He has even spoken the same language that normal people use, though it doesn't express little bit of his idiosyncrasy. He has drunk whatever others drink, though it doesn't allay his thirst. He has eaten what earthly creators eat, of course those haven't nurtured him.

Widox has got depression. He hasn't changed the world a bit in 40 years. Mission has failed. People say Widox has got midlife crisis.

"داچا" by Sara

اتاق ِ من یک داچا ست. داچا؛ کلبه های چوبی ِ پایه بلند در دشت های پربرف ِ روسیه، محصور میان ِ درختان ِ غان. بله. اتاق من سومین اتاق از دومین طبقه ی هفتمین خانه ی اولین کوچه ی چهارراهی در تهران یا اولین اتاق از سومین طبقه ی اولین خانه ی اولین کوچه ی چهارراهی در سیدنی نیست. هر از گاهی که در ِ این اتاق بسته باشد، من ساکن تنها داچای چندمین تپه ی پربرف ِ سیبری هستم.
برف و برف و برف. چشمان ِ من تنها در داچا به نور کم عادت دارند. بیرون از آن همه جا سپیدی خیره کننده ی برف و هوهوی باد و سبزی درختان ِ غان است. من اینجا خودم را کشف می کنم و از کنارش، دنیا را.
من تنها نیستم. آدم های تمام کتاب هایی که خوانده ام با من اند. مثلا الان آقای ک. آن گوشه ی اتاق، پشت میز شق و رق نشسته و مدارکش را برای چند هزارمین بار می خواند. گره گور زامزا روی تخت افتاده و سعی دارد به روی پاهایش برگردد. وینستون اسمیت کنارتنها پنجره ی کوچک بخار گرفته ی داچا ایستاده و با نگرانی انتظار بازگشت جولیا را می کشد. بقیه را نمی بینم. به گمانم برای برف بازی رفته باشند بیرون. من از دنیای کتابهایی که می خوانم خلاصی ندارم. من اسیر می شوم. با سر به درون داستان پرت می شوم. می شوم آنا کارنینا و خودم را پرت می کنم زیر قطار، یا در استحاله ای زوربا می شوم و شادمانه می رقصم. تقریبا همه جا مدتی زندگی کرده ام. حتی گاهی به جای این یا آن شخصیت حبس کشیده ام، آدم کشته ام. من سارا نیستم، سلوچ ام. جایم در خانه ام خالیست. مرگان چشم به راهم است. من در این داچا اسیرم

سارا

Childless (4)

The surprisingly thick glasses cover almost half of her face. Her zoomed eyes are slightly squint, but still bright and curious. She is now showing something to her bigger brother out there from the window. You wonder what it is. They are both so excited. Next moment she is doing some acrobatic movements when the bus makes a sudden stop. She almost falls before her father catches her and asks her to sit straight. She is looking around, still having the naughty but innocent look on her face. For few seconds she seems to be staring at you. You smile, and feel out of breath. Her mother is now hugging her brother affectionately.

He presses his ears on her bumped stomach, caressing it, kissing it and making noises with his mouth on it, as if he is communicating with a deaf-blind, through a balloon. For how long have I been dreaming of this! Putting ears on your stomach, and listening to the tiny creature whose seed I've planted there. In the womb of my beloved woman shall grow the most beautiful creature, because we made love and pleaded to have it. Her hand petting his hair is enough to make him the happiest man on the entire planet.

The room is dark. It's a long time since the sun has set. You are sitting there alone, embracing your knees, gazing at the empty space.

from a BOAT (5)

1300 hrs Saturday 12th:
Outside is pretty gloomy and wet and I’m writing from the comfort of my cabin here. There’s something about the colour grey that I find difficult to describe. It feels somehow dreary and cold; yet it’s very real.
I don’t know if you have ever experienced this, but when I come across all the bright and lively colours of red and orange, all the bubbly things, the excitements and amusements, all the happiness and joy that matters; there I sense an element of being momentary and untrue withinside, the feeling of something being deceivingly fabricated to briefly distract me from all the unpleasant reality woven into the very fabric of the existence – like a cheap and trivial conspiracy. Do other people think like that or it’s only me having this phobia for all the earthly pleasures? Is it the result of pessimism and cultural submissiveness that I have accumulated in myself from my people’s heritage of hundreds of years? Is it because I belong in a desert where everybody’s been waiting for the rain (and the light) that never came? Is that why I lost faith?

from a BOAT (4)

1600 hrs Thursday 10th:
Ah, today’s a typical boring day. There’s nothing particular about it to tell. Just the routine daily duties and other subsistence essentials. I’ve also started to make arrangements to leave the boat in a few days. Quite possibly, I’ll have to wait for a chopper to come and pick me up or otherwise take the crew-change boat which is meant to come around sometime next week. You see, when you’re on the sea, the notion of time is a wee bit different from shore. Let’s see what the weather would be like and where will we be then.

However, let me go back to last night. Looking out over the sea from one of the highest walkways, upon the very first glance, there was something that hooked up my eyes for a good one or two minute. Watching from the starboard side, there was THE MOST AMAZING sight you might imagine. It was so simple, and yet so grand; utterly breathtaking!
T’was the reflection of the full moon lighting up the water surface with an unconceivable brightness and majesty; through which went countless little ripples up-and-down, up-and-down, as if an enormous mirror had fallen off, shattered into a thousand pieces, and floating on the water, in a stone-throw distance over there!

from a BOAT (3)

1300 hrs Wednesday 9th:
Good day folks! Today’s all cheery and jolly. You know why? The sea is calm. You see, only 4 days on the sea and I already know who the master is. The crew tell me that I looked quite pale and ill for a middle eastern; almost looking like a Scotsman (is there any irony here?). Keeping on telling you about the crew and what they say, it appears to me that they have certain qualities that you’d expect to see in pagan people of 4 millennia before. It’s as if men of sea have all been well isolated from waves of intellect flourishing on the land. While we, the people living in non-floating houses, have been going through all varieties of beliefs, religions, philosophy, art, ideologies and politics, cherished them, suffered from them, and abandoned them all; seamen have been immune. As if they still think much like the old Phoenician sailors on the little wooden boats taking merchandise through the city-states of ancient Mediterranean and Aegean, as if they’re still praying to the God of the Sea and take sacrifices to please sea-monsters, they keep telling you: “It can only get better!”

from a BOAT (2)

0200 hrs Wednesday 09th:
I said I’ll write more often, I know I didn’t. I woke up very early in the morning on Monday 7th and found myself rocking up and down very harshly. It wasn’t only me; the boat was. Managed to get myself to the window of the cabin just to see that, “oh shoot, high waves!”. Turns out maximum predicted wave height is about 3.5m. And if you think that the weather forecast is wrong as usual, or even “what the heck, I’ll go home if the weather was bad”, you’re sadly mistaken. There’s no where to run. So went back upstairs and got my seasickness pills, and although I’ve been taking them so far, I couldn’t muster enough attention to draw me back to my pen & paper and writing. Well until around now that the seastate is significantly lower (I guess around 1m).
I haven’t been talking to a lot of people lately, but I’ve watched some news and all. Something caught my eyes amongst the reports from Edinburgh festival. Something about some young actors that have taken some personal diaries & journals to the stage and performed them and as the journal is being written everyday, the play changes. Frankly, I initially thought it wasn’t something I would have wanted to go and see and would have rather read it myself if I was interested. On a second thought, well why not?!

from a BOAT (1)

I’m afraid folks; the following is not about, sex or politics, violence or death & life; or anything controversial at all. This quite simply is a:

Journal of the Voyage

1800 hrs, Sunday 06th:
My dear reader, you have found this virtual bottle, cast off the window of my cabin with my daily journal inside. I will try to send a bottle for you everyday or otherwise every other day as daily engagements may allow.
I’m board a supply boat with British flag now. We have set sail from the east coast of Scotland heading for Denmark. Fortunately, the sea is calm and the wind is low.
Please, don’t get me wrong folks, I’m no seaman, nor am I seeking adventure or a voyage full of excitements and peculiarities as such. Well to be honest, I thought it’d be interesting as my first real sea voyage, and knowing it is going to take quite a few days, I was expecting, hoping for a lot of or perhaps some new experiences. You know, the type of things that makes people write about their trips. So I decided to write my journal, nothing fancy in it as such, and post it for you good fellas.
Let me tell you about this vessel a bit. It’s not a big boat, about 200 feet long, (more?) and my cabin’s also very nice with a window opening to the back deck and another one to the port side. I met the captain, elderly chap perhaps in his 60s; he greeted me warmly and took me to the bridge and showed me everything, the compass, and all. The view of the sea from the bridge is breathtaking, specially when you turn your head and you see distancing from the shore.
I was expecting to get seasick and all, so I went to the first officer for medicine. He laughed at me and said I’ll be fine. I thought he was waiting to see me get sick and make a fool of myself, but amazingly, I’m good. I confess I had a “funny feeling” at some point, but I’m getting used to it. One of the crew saw me eating in the galley and mentioned that I must be alright if I could eat.
Talking about the crew, they appear to be somewhat weird. I don’t know what makes a man give up land and go to sea. Why should someone choose a life of not having a home? What is it out there that draws their souls? I suspect it’s like a deficiency or the lack of ability to perform in normal condition that makes sailors retreat to the solitude of the endless waters and horror of the abyss. They really make me wonder! They appear to be polite and helpful at times, yet there’s still a strange quality in their manners. One might think they have evolved and adapted to the sea; part of the sea.
I was having a conversation with a gentleman on board a while ago. He wasn’t a sailor either and shared some of my views, though he’d been around boats a bit more and things appear to not surprise him any longer, as such.

He is his own worst enemy

She left him about a year ago. He understands why they should’t stay together, but still wonders why he can’t live without her. He is always looking for her in any girl he sees.

His manager is unbearable. Someday, he will unleash his fury, but he knows that ugly argue benefits nobody.

He is stuck. Why doesn’t his immigration application progress? Does his employer abuse other employees too or he is the only helpless guy.

…

He goes to bed, pulls his head to kiss her goodnight, but she turns her face. He extends his arm to grab her. she's gone for a long time now. He turns his head to the other side and sees his manager standing at the door. They look fiercely at each other; fight is inevitable this time, once forever…. With a sweated robe and bitter mouth, he walks to the kitchen to have some water. His office mate is playing cards with his employer at the dinner table. He pretends he can't see them. He has no strength left in his body. He opens the fridge, grabs the bottle of wine, turns on the TV and sinks into the sofa. With the last sip of wine, he draws few lines on the wall before returning to the bed.

First thing in the morning, neighbours will come to see the wall painting.