The Middle-Aged Man and the Ocean
Noctivagating Dark Oceans of Fear
Noctivagating Dark Oceans of Fear
Here's a continuation of the parody:
The Middle-Aged Man and the Ocean
When I dreamt that I would drown, sitting at the edge of our backyard on woody Laburnum Avenue in chipper Charlotte, North Carolina, I didn’t realize that the dream would become my future.
“Listen to your dreams” the Bewilderbeast in the back right corner of my water closet would whisper in tones of derision and spectacle. “Dreams”, he would iterate, “are that part of the rapidly melting iceberg that is invisible to your eyes, but exists, already, just beneath the silvery surface.”
So now I dogpaddle or flail, a middle-aged man in an ocean, which is the world now…waterlogged, and softening for the fish to chew. I used to be a respectable insurance salesman, but the tides of fate have swept me away, and I find myself lost at sea, surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of my own failed dreams.
My trusty vessel, the "Midlife Crisis", creaks and groans beneath me, a rickety old boat held together with duct tape and wishful thinking. My fishing rod, once a proud and sturdy companion, now lies broken and tangled in the depths, a metaphor for my own shattered hopes and desires.
As I drift aimlessly, I spot a massive sea creature in the distance. Its scales glint in the sunlight, and I can see the glint in its eye, a mixture of curiosity and contempt. It's a behemoth of a fish, a symbol of the unattainable goals that have always eluded me. I know I should be afraid, but I'm too tired, too worn out from the struggles of modern life.
"Ah, another middle-aged man adrift," the fish seems to say, "lost in the ocean of his own mediocrity." It swims closer, its fins slicing through the water with ease, and I feel the weight of my own inadequacy bearing down upon me.
"What's the point of it all?" I cry out to the fish, my voice lost in the wind and waves. "Is it just a never-ending struggle, a Sisyphean task of treading water until we finally sink beneath the surface?"
The fish regards me with a cold, unblinking stare, and I can sense its disdain. "You humans are all the same," it seems to say. "You flail and struggle, but never truly swim. You're just a bunch of middle-aged men and women, lost in the ocean of your own making."
And with that, the fish turns and swims away, leaving me to my thoughts. I'm left to ponder the meaning of it all, a middle-aged man adrift in a sea of uncertainty, clinging to the wreckage of my own failed dreams.
But as I float there, something strange happens. The water begins to recede, and I find myself back in my backyard on Laburnum Avenue, the Bewilderbeast in the water closet chuckling to himself.
"See, I told you," he says, "dreams are just the tip of the iceberg. The real challenge is navigating the depths of your own soul."
And with that, I wake up, the dream fading like the morning mist. But the memory of it stays with me, a reminder that even in the darkest depths of the ocean, there's always a chance to swim to the surface, to find a new way forward, and to start anew.
Art by Woody Williams (Funky Geezer)