I look out to the horizon, ever moving, yet to my eye, ever still. What awaits us over the edge? Is it, like the horizon, forever unattainable? What stagnant pool of drudgery will we cross on this voyage of discontented discovery? What great lessons of Solomon are we to eclipse in our apocryphal discovery of new lands and peoples and riches, of sickness and sadness for the spaces within that lay empty of love? Are we burning under this persistent sun? Are the heavens making a mockery of our questions? Why does man feel so empty that he needs to fill his life with conquests and plunder, raping visions of innocence with foul perversions of reason?
As I look at the man beside me, I am presented with a gentle silence. But the acts of men have too often breached the threshold of their character and I stand able to draw only an undesirable conclusion:
A man’s character is not tomorrow guaranteed.
Where is the heart that does not want? Where is the hand that seeks not to feed the commands of the heart? As I stand here beside the helmsman that steers my ship into the dripping seconds of time, I am frozen in fear by the realization that the bonds that govern the behaviour of men are far too fragile for the beast that lies within.
For what are we looking? What great discovery will calm the fiery need that burns within our heart and drips its waste into the pit of our stomachs, burning a hole for escape? For what are we looking?
The day tempers in its inactivity and threatens the sky with darkness. Out of the stillness comes movement, out of movement comes response. Out of memories, out of anecdotes and out of careless wonder, the men rise with intent. So quickly are weighty matters disposed of; there is work at hand