I am home. My toenails are painted blue like the sea. I feel as if I've never left, and yet know it can't be possible. Were that the case, how did I incur this plethora of new and exciting injuries? Rainbows of bruises, swollen knuckles from dislocated fingers, gentle scrapes, peeling sunburn -- most importantly, the deep ebb and flood of yearning for my home on the water and the salty, wildmad lovers I left therein.
Suddenly I speak a foreign language in a native tongue. People stare at me, perplexed, as I run through complex explanations to supplement jokes about bilge pumps and bulkheads. My idiom is fast becoming obsolete and so I furiously tread water, writing letters and burning promised mix CD's for shipmates. Trying to recall the smell of salt on my skin and wind in my hair.
Normal service to resume shortly.
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