For when I was once a traveler of the seas, so squalid, so frigid, snapping and forcing my fragile body to and fro with such a benevolent rage, I felt unafraid. For it was not that I had conquered human fear through countless days of riding your fury and knowing, calculating, the patterns that you were so likely to extract; your winds whipping my limbs so callous; your spray, so salty, licking little flames onto my face already numbened by your bitter mist. It was not that I was a pioneer who had mastered your ride, so wild, who tamed you, horse, the child of a God, beguiled.
Nor did I fear death, how it so surrounded me, in that moment and always. Looming over and around the little entity, me. With fingers made of bone stirring forth the sea; spinning whirlpool circles made to entrance the weakness that I am, man. And I shouted unto thee,
“I am but a man! Yield your twisted finger, death, and cease to be my end! For I have seen your gristly fate, and conquered it, I have! Your voice rings deftly in my ear, but in this moment, ill-begotten fate, the mist is all I hear!”
For it was not my mastery over you, my salty sea, nor my cheeky pride towards death that cauterized my fear that day; bowing to your power, storm, so much greater than my own. For I was able to stand up to all the gods of sea, of earth, of wind and heaven, and yet I felt completely vapid, my insignificance leavened.
For the fear that swelled and ripped inside of me was reflected through my empty. For now I was without you; for now I did not care, for now the surging through my veins, you, had disappeared.