the captain's last hour

They’re calling my name…. over and over again I hear it, “Johnnnnn,” or occasionally “sir, sir we need you”. That sound is what feeds the tears that are now forming in the corners of my eyes, but they don’t feel like tears, they feel like shards of glass. In place of tears blood is trickling down my face. There is nothing but blood that I can see now.
The sea, I can still see that, but it’s not what it once was. I feel its infection, and the blood in my veins is suddenly congealed. I was dead a long time ago. I was dead when that sky distorted, so many millennia ago. It turned into a shadow, ever stretching. Every bird was just a reminder of life that once was, but those wonderful birds were killed by this eternal storm. Their corpses would sometimes turn up on deck, and we would eat them, because food is scarce. I died then. Even now I see in the water moving creatures that might have once been fish. I don’t know what they are now, but hell if I want to.
I look around and see nothing, because I choose to see nothing; my eyes are closed, and will not open again. I refuse to deal with this. I am no longer leader of this vessel. The spirit of this world is gone, and mine with it. I don’t know what I am anymore. The only thing more consuming than the water seems to be the uncertainty. There are no limits to that, you see, and all my mind can do is race, around and around the same things. I will stop that.
I refuse to hear now. They can scream all they want, and the wind can keep on howling. I’ve stopped caring. When was the last time I cared? I remember. It was when that young sailor was sick, and I made it my business to care for him. Two weeks into the voyage, and it started out as just a cold. Dead, just dead that’s all. I don’t know why, I’m no doctor, but he was dead. Maybe if I had become a doctor, I could have helped him. Maybe if had studied more, maybe if I had cared more. What if, what if, what if, that is all I heard for who knows how long. That beating drum of uncertainty that replaced dreams for me. It replaced food for me. It replaced love for me. It was all that was in me. And these produced stones in my ears, a wall if you will (I was never the poetic type). I was done listening, I governed my ship and my body as the moment pushed, and each time it pushed I reacted less; until finally now I stand still, I lie down, and I will die.
Of course I did say I was already dead. Really there was no point in life, when touch left me. When I became nothing but a lone piece of existence. I don’t even know if I can remember when it happened, but other people were just glimmers of light I disregarded along my way. They were just… there, and I passed by. It was here that I became oblivious, more than uncaring, even if I wanted to care, I couldn’t. I lost touch with everyone. My laugh left me here, and my smile was just a twitch. I don’t know why. Maybe it was nothing. I felt it though, I don’t know if anyone else felt it, but I could feel the world slipping away from me. And no one tried to offer their hand, and I knew then perhaps it was best to slip away. Of course someone might have offered their hand; even if they had I wouldn’t have noticed.
Taste was the first to go, when I took port in a bay of some G-d forsaken foreign country. And I saw all the inhumanity there, hell except these people weren’t lucky enough to be dead. I have no words to describe it. Once I saw this, well, things started to lose meaning. I was simply a thief of these poor people who didn’t have things, when I did. Justice was never anything but a vague concept to me, but I knew what it was because I knew exactly that it wasn’t. If that makes any sense, which I don’t imagine it does, but it doesn’t have to because nothing makes any sense, because we’re just not worth it in the end. If we were those people would be worth it too, and someone would have cared. After that all orders were said not shouted, there was no force left in me when I knew there was no force left in those poor people. I was a victim with them. I have died a few times you might say. And questions pop up. What have I done to make this world better? What is my point? Those were classic questions with cliché answers that can’t possibly be right, so I refuse to accept them. More uncertainty. That’s all there is, was, and ever will be. The only thing with meaning is the search for the fact that there isn’t any. It’ll keep a dog chasing his tail for a while, but why it can occupy all of humanity is beyond me, but then what do I care?
It’s over, it’s done, all of me is gone, drowned by the sea, swept away by the wind. I am nothing now. One more deep breath, so I have something to remember all I’m sure I ever did right in this world.

the captain's last hour


Joined January 2008

  • Artist

Artist's Description

it’s simply a piece of writing intended to be read.

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