There comes a point when you know nothing you do is going to
keep the ship from sinking. It is a
mental resignation. Just as you knew
back at the bar, you had enough money to keep drinking but no amount of alcohol
was going to undo what had been done.
There was no going back.
Neither scenario is desirable. All control has been taken away from
you. The water that now washes over the
deck of the ship is ice-cold on your feet and urges you to seek higher ground,
but too much has transpired leading to this point in time. Even your now soaked shoes feel the ocean floor
tugging at them, beckoning them to join the murky bottom. They have become anchors. They are heavy and your feet are freezing, perhaps
offering a glimpse of an imminent reality.
There are no Jack Sparrow moments here. No last-minute rescues or flashes of genius
that will turn things around. In this
moment you know exactly what it means to go down with the ship, and yet your
mind races, your eyes dart about the deck hoping to see something, anything MacGyverish.
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