Just a simple thought.

Claude Monet | The Green Wave | The Met

You find yourself in a small, wooden sailboat atop a spinning blue marble floating in the infinite cosmos. The water is flat, calm but for the gentle breeze filling your sails. Your hand rests on the tiller. Your mind is clear, your eyes steady upon the horizon. Nothing but water surrounds you. Above, the pale sun is framed by the low hanging yellow clouds, pregnant with possibility, the light streaming down upon the sturdy wooden prow and the crisp white sail and the mast which points straight upwards into the sky like a defiant finger. You steer with the conviction of a seasoned navigator, confident and sure and calm. You aren't sure when you last saw the land. Far, far from here, on a distant shore, worms are flailing and screaming, writhing and buckling and trembling and digging frantically under the harvests' dregs. They wend their way from the light, spurning it, and in a frenzy they dig down to the core of the Earth, to the soothing darkness of rot and filth and they shut themselves away. But you cannot see the writhing or the screaming of the worms. All you can see is the pale sun and the yellow clouds, and the blue horizon. The waves, once ripples, have now formed peaks and valleys and crests. You sense that the wind has risen. You stiffen in anticipation of the coming squall. A moment passes. Another. Your hackles rise. The wind begins to swell. The clouds have began to gather together like football players deciding the next play, obscuring the pallid sun from view. They darken in color to a yellow-green. Your craft bounces on the waves. The sunlight that once smiled down on your little boat has faded. Spray whips your cheeks. Howling. You see your destination ahead. A source; the waves emanate from a crater in the water, pitted and tremulously still. You know that this is the place. Your ship pitches and groans as the spitting wind bats it to and fro on the brackish waters. You scratch your head and your hands come away bloody. You make it to the edge, and the wind piles and pushes and plunders your tiny vessel, pitching you side to side. You drop the sail, the boom flailing from side to side, and wrap the heavy chain of the anchor around your leg. The clouds are spitting too now: jade green rain falls from the emerald sky. You take up the anchor and jump, sinking into the darkness. The jet waters envelop you, the bubbles breaking the stillness. You hold your breath for as long as you can, until you simply can't hold on any longer and you gasp for air that isn't there, retching and choking noiselessly on the brine. Your lungs fill with seawater, bursting agonizingly. You slide further into the depths, while above the surface the sun sinks and the scant scrap of crescent moon takes its post, and the stars alight in the void like sickly candle flames, and your eyes can see them all, staring sightless upward as you come finally to rest upon the ocean floor. They are a feast for crabs.


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