we're down to our last jar of jam, and the only spoon

It’s nearly time to jump ship.
Restless. Just like the ship, tossing to and fro in the purple black storm.
Reckless. It’s time for something like that.
I can feel the itch in my fingers, and calves, and balls of my feet. It’s telling me it’s time to go free.
I can feel my body splay wildly in all directions, jumping with all kinds of dreams, pushing forward like a mob of reporters.
And no one is left to steer the ship.

I guess that means, its time to jump.
Jumping is easy. You just jump.

It’s the landing that’s hard.

“It’s not goodbye, it’s just goodnight.” But if I don’t wake up, does it matter in the slightest that I said goodnight when it was really goodbye?

“Hey Fred, you alright?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too.”

Sometimes, you aren’t alright. And so you hope that on those days, you’re majestic.