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As I mentioned once in post #19, “Update: The main purpose of this blog,” some posts may take the form of a narrative, a story. This is the first case of this week’s post. From the past, I’ve learned that some things are easier for me to express through metaphoric language rather than being overly specific. Since the source of this story and its details may not be known to you, as it encompasses aspects of my life and struggles, you are free to interpret it in your own way. After all, any creation is subject to interpretation. Now for the story…

Just to Hold On

The harbor from which I departed no longer suits me. I’ve heard too many stories of different shores, of a different life, to turn back. But those images and visions remain just that—mere visualizations. Whether my eyes are closed or open, I can see them. The only question is: can I hold on?

Sometimes, the ocean is cold—quite often, in fact. The same horizon stretches before me every day, with no guarantee of reaching my destination. At times, I face storms; they are far from pleasant. I struggle to prepare the sails, to keep them steady. Many times, I wonder if what I do is enough. Surely not. My full potential is within reach, but the greatest obstacle is within—the state of mind. Setbacks arise, decisions waver, discipline slips. Not trying, but doing. Trying to keep the ship steady.

For now, I am a lonely captain. I’m very selective about which ships accompany me on my course. I rarely allow any into my presence because I have specific preferences—clear expectations for which ships I want to engage with in communication. Those who drill holes in their own hulls, whether knowingly or not, or those who contribute little but excel at complaining and talking without action—or simply drift without purpose or direction, unconcerned by it—I let them carry on, sailing off in whatever direction their ship is pointing.

Steady on the ship. Some days, the sail is smooth, the wind carrying the boat effortlessly through the unchanging horizon. Other days, the movement is slow, almost imperceptible, yet steady. Then, there are the storms. Those times are the worst because our minds long for that distant shore, but I remain here. And there is only one way forward.

Looking at the horizon, I wonder—when will it happen? When will we finally reach land? There is so much to discover, so much to experience—the mountains, the forests, the landscapes of a new world. But we have not even reached the shore yet. So—when will it happen? Will I still be as young as I am now? Will I arrive in the first half of my life or the second? The first third, or the last? Some things can only be enjoyed in youth, and not later. I just don’t want to miss out.

For now, the weather is tolerable—not bad. The storm of the past week has calmed somewhat. There is no need to desperately clutch the railings, no need to stay confined to the cabin at night, praying to survive in one piece.

Dangers remain—many. Sirens call to the sailors, and dealing with them requires a precise approach. Give them what they want so they leave us alone? Refuse them and endure their wailing? Or perhaps find an entirely new way to handle them—hearing their calls as nothing more than birdsong, requiring no response at all whatsoever? Whether that is even possible—we would have to find out for ourselves.

The silence of the sea. Just us and our thoughts. They bounce off the water like raindrops, affecting the ship but not the sea itself. Yet the ocean, the sky, and the horizon can be seen from different angles and states of mind—something I too often forget, assuming my view is the only filter that exists. There is also the state of having no filter at all, seeing things as they are. But that one, nobody taught us. It seems it’s up to the human brain to figure that out for itself, whatever it may imply.

And no direction from others. No map handed to me. Only rumors, scattered bits of information. I know how to navigate, but my greatest challenge is motivating the crew to stay engaged, to tend to their needs. A sick sailor is of no use, nor are those who are unhappy, depressed, or demotivated. Keeping spirits high is crucial because we’ve been given only this one chance. Otherwise, we die here. And no one wants to remain endlessly adrift or return to that rusty, decaying shore behind us—a life of servitude, devoid of meaning. We would rather be free men, not reduced to mere life-support systems for others, sacrificing our energy and existence so that someone or something else may live freely in our place.

To sail onward. To hold on. I see no other option.

But what if the winds become utterly relentless? What if lightning strikes the boat and sets it on fire, or the ground becomes too slippery, water everywhere? I think the answer is simple—though the execution may not be. Do whatever we can, as long as we breathe, as long as we can survive each day. Move forward. That’s the only way.

Sometimes, thoughts of what to do, combined with the challenges of the sea and the boat itself, multiply exponentially. And on those nights, when energy is spent and the only rational decision is to sleep, it feels almost as though one must die—having to let go of everything, shutting down the busy worried mind, allowing it to recharge so that tomorrow can be faced with renewed strength, not exhaustion.

If we can manage to just hold on.

We cannot sail forever. Sooner or later, we will hit a shore. It will either be the one we long for or the one that ends it all. Either way, doing nothing is no longer an option for us.

We must do whatever it takes, because now, our very lives depend on it—mine, the crew’s, and the boat’s. We either perish, or we make it through to the other side. Any fancy concept of God has long been left behind; the truth is, we are alone and must help ourselves. There is no one to rescue us or carry us through anymore—at least, not to the destination we set out to reach. And so, we move forward, into the vast unknown of the open ocean.