I wonder if the lighthouse keeper feels lost, even though he’s the one standing still with all his memories from daylight assuring him he’s still perched on the side of that cliff with the water always beneath him and the old town two miles down the hill behind him. I don’t imagine he sees very far out the windows, with that one running light over his head turning the whole length of night midnight-dark in contrast.
I wonder how lost the ship captain feels, always moving, but the familiar ocean always close enough to trade spit shots. He’s always perfectly centered between the equidistant edges of the horizon, with all the room he needs for his head as he stands under the domed sky. Starlight isn’t that bright, but it likes to keep nights gray beneath it.
I wrote this a few weeks ago, though until three minutes ago, the title was The Thing I Wrote Under Duress. It’s what my professor told me I was doing, when I swung back into her writing class for a day, after having been graduated for four years.
Funny how I actually enjoyed the deadline after all this time.