Diary--If Found Return To Patrick Stump [ON HOLD]

Day One - 6/16/09

I'm setting off today. I haven't got an exact location, I'm just trying to get away from the world for a break. Sure, it'll be very lonely, but I'll have time to figure out my troubled thoughts. I've got an old fishing boat, covered with random supplies: rope, crates, and fabrics of all shapes and sizes. This will be my chance to clear my head, and get inspiration for my music. There's a massive line to fill boats with fuel and each boat takes approximately 30 minutes to fill. While waiting, I make sure I have all I need for the journey: clothes, toothbrush, food, and water. You know, the basics.

Finally, I'm two people away from the front of the line. I stand impatiently; I should have left earlier. The last man in front of me leaves, boat full and ready to sail. I step up and say to the fuel attendant. "I need fuel to fill a 40 gallon tank." I say. The attendant glances up from his computer. "Okay, sign 'ere and I'll get 'em to fill 'er up." I reach for the pen, tied securely to the clipboard. I sign my name, and am directed to lead the fuel workers to my ship. I do so, waiting patiently as they fill up S.S. Hathaway.

When they finish, I load my luggage, emergency equipment, and extra fuel onto my boat. As I load my last bag, a ferry passes by, slowly and gracefully. I immediately become self conscious.

S.S. Hathaway's original gold letters have chipped and faded, and the hull has become a dull grey. It used to be a vivid blue, bright like the noon sky. Now it's a stormy grey, about as colorful as a blank canvas. It's covered in clutter, organized in a manner that only a mole could find its way around. The sails are torn, ragged, and downright disgusting. I'm surprised that they are even letting me sail this old thing. Sighing, I turn away from S.S. Hathaway, and the ferry is long gone down the shore.

Pulling my boat slowly away from the splintered docks, I take a deep breath; I am finally free. I feel the mist from the sea sprinkle my face, and I turn the boat around, slowly, for I am finally away from the wet, grimy docks. I sail faster, faster, until I reach the limit of my ship's speed capabilities. Then, I look back at the shoreline, not longingly, but defiantly, as I have escaped the grips of land, and into the palms of the sea.

How long until land takes me back, dragging me from sea's comforting embrace, and put me back into the world I am trying to escape? Thoughts like these are the reason I am running to the sea, land puts them into my head, allowing me to slowly erode into a sleepless, stressful existence no one wants to suffer through.

I steer S.S. Hathaway into the sunset, sailing further away from land with each spin of the propeller, and gust of wind.