I like sitting beside a sea, contemplating. Most think I'm a man of the mountains, and I claim myself to be one. But I like sea too. I especially like the waves, the one which are washing my feet over and over like a broken record. They're mostly phosphorus, but at this time, with the sky a pale, chalky blue, the inner light of every wave is breaking down. I'm sitting here, near a harbour. The giant Ferris wheel in the background makes an inappropriate wheel of shadow on the pale sky. It disrupts the harmony of the sky and sea and their endless conversations. It is 4 in the morning, and sunlight is near. I sit down, the waves polishing my trousers into a darker shade of what they are.
I like ships. I like boats too. Just like the ones resting on the sand-bed beside me. In a few minutes, the first voyagers of dawn will roll them out and sail out in search. Of food, mostly.
I can see a ship leaving the harbour, a giant demagogue like figure. Just that, there is no more rationality left in it, just ration. And the boats leave too, one by one. All my life, I've sat here and seen them go away. I wish I was a boat. I could leave too then. I could leave and not look back. It's nice not to be rooted, I feel nowadays. A strange indifference creeps inside me, creeping me. I wish I was a boat.
Boats are a lot similar to people. Especially the ones which leave never to come back. They get lost in the sea, they crash into shallow sea beds in the middle of nowhere, they fall apart, broken. And sometimes, they just leave to reach a new destination. And start a new career in being the same old carrier, carrying a hundred new faces maybe, or just a few everyday newbies. I like those boats. They never come back, and eventually, I forget them. I forget those coveted yet tattered sails. I forget those wooden planks with dried salts making a hard, dry cover in their undersides. I like boats which never come back. I miss them, yes. But I still love them.
It is the boats which will always come back that I'm scared of. They always end up near my feet in the evening, after I've tired my eyes and my soul seeking out a new boat to seek shelter in for the night that'll never come. Every morning, I beg them silently not to leave me behind, but no, they must go on. They are but a boat. And I'm just a boy who wants to be a boat.
The sea calls away the boats, but why doesn't it ever call me? Is it because I'm not a boat? Is it because I can't swim? I hate the sea at certain times of each day. When it takes all the boats and ships away. And when it brings some of them back. You can ask me, some boats do come back, why do I still prefer to be angry at the sea then? Because once you go out there, you never come back as the one I loved. Your mast break, your sail peel away, your wooden planks smell of fish. You're not the same boat anymore. You're just a scribbled on and dirty rendition of something under which I decided to lose my shadow one day.
I do love those boats again, eventually. But as days pass, the boats get stronger, sailing hours after hours on cold water, and I become stronger. I become colder, like the sea. So one day, when a boat never comes back, I decide to be happy, though somewhere deep inside, I know that boat sank with a bit of me in it, in it's every plank, every inch of cloth, of dirty plastic and linen, every bit of rope, and every bit of hope. The hope that it'd see me sail one day beside it. But that's just my imagination. Boats don't feel anything. I shouldn't too, should I?
The sky is turning orange. The sea, imitating the sky. I remember I read somewhere, waves are but like love, they always come back to wash you and all your grief away. They eventually withdraw, but that's temporary. I think I'll give more importance to the coming back, than the leaving part. Maybe I should stop seeking shelter under boats. Maybe I should stop seeking out new boats. Maybe, just maybe, will then I become a boat.
But I think I'd then want to be the sea. I'd like to wash the feet of another me, soothing his cathartic soul. I think I'll become the sea. And let the boats sail. And help all those who want to be a boat, I'll help them sail away too.
But then again, I am but just a boy wants to be a boat.
I like ships. I like boats too. Just like the ones resting on the sand-bed beside me. In a few minutes, the first voyagers of dawn will roll them out and sail out in search. Of food, mostly.
I can see a ship leaving the harbour, a giant demagogue like figure. Just that, there is no more rationality left in it, just ration. And the boats leave too, one by one. All my life, I've sat here and seen them go away. I wish I was a boat. I could leave too then. I could leave and not look back. It's nice not to be rooted, I feel nowadays. A strange indifference creeps inside me, creeping me. I wish I was a boat.
Boats are a lot similar to people. Especially the ones which leave never to come back. They get lost in the sea, they crash into shallow sea beds in the middle of nowhere, they fall apart, broken. And sometimes, they just leave to reach a new destination. And start a new career in being the same old carrier, carrying a hundred new faces maybe, or just a few everyday newbies. I like those boats. They never come back, and eventually, I forget them. I forget those coveted yet tattered sails. I forget those wooden planks with dried salts making a hard, dry cover in their undersides. I like boats which never come back. I miss them, yes. But I still love them.
It is the boats which will always come back that I'm scared of. They always end up near my feet in the evening, after I've tired my eyes and my soul seeking out a new boat to seek shelter in for the night that'll never come. Every morning, I beg them silently not to leave me behind, but no, they must go on. They are but a boat. And I'm just a boy who wants to be a boat.
The sea calls away the boats, but why doesn't it ever call me? Is it because I'm not a boat? Is it because I can't swim? I hate the sea at certain times of each day. When it takes all the boats and ships away. And when it brings some of them back. You can ask me, some boats do come back, why do I still prefer to be angry at the sea then? Because once you go out there, you never come back as the one I loved. Your mast break, your sail peel away, your wooden planks smell of fish. You're not the same boat anymore. You're just a scribbled on and dirty rendition of something under which I decided to lose my shadow one day.
I do love those boats again, eventually. But as days pass, the boats get stronger, sailing hours after hours on cold water, and I become stronger. I become colder, like the sea. So one day, when a boat never comes back, I decide to be happy, though somewhere deep inside, I know that boat sank with a bit of me in it, in it's every plank, every inch of cloth, of dirty plastic and linen, every bit of rope, and every bit of hope. The hope that it'd see me sail one day beside it. But that's just my imagination. Boats don't feel anything. I shouldn't too, should I?
The sky is turning orange. The sea, imitating the sky. I remember I read somewhere, waves are but like love, they always come back to wash you and all your grief away. They eventually withdraw, but that's temporary. I think I'll give more importance to the coming back, than the leaving part. Maybe I should stop seeking shelter under boats. Maybe I should stop seeking out new boats. Maybe, just maybe, will then I become a boat.
But I think I'd then want to be the sea. I'd like to wash the feet of another me, soothing his cathartic soul. I think I'll become the sea. And let the boats sail. And help all those who want to be a boat, I'll help them sail away too.
But then again, I am but just a boy wants to be a boat.
Like a broken record was a very interesting translation!
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