They tell you that getting out of prison is a fresh start. Like setting sail again, ready for new horizons, a second chance at the journey you started.
It’s a lie.
A fresh start would mean setting out on equal footing, a fair shot at the same sea as everyone else. But when they finally let you go, your boat is barely floating.
You were on a journey once. Maybe it was a race. Maybe it was just a long voyage toward something better. The destination was clear. Success, love, stability, a life worth building. You weren’t the fastest, and you weren’t the smartest, but you were moving forward, chasing something that mattered.
And then you hit the rocks.
Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe you didn’t see them in time. Maybe the storm was stronger than you were. None of it matters. The only thing that matters is that the hull split apart, the mast cracked, and in an instant, your journey was over.
The harbor master came, and there was no kindness in his voice. No questions. No concern. He didn’t care why it happened, didn’t care if you were reckless or unlucky or just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He just towed you to shore, pulled you from your wreck, and told you to fix it.
At first, you thought you could. You had a crew. People who had sailed with you before, who had been there when the waves crashed over the deck and the sails tore away in the wind. People who swore they’d help you rebuild.
But people have their own lives.
At first, they stayed. They sat with you on the docks, shook their heads at the wreckage, promised that if anyone could put it back together, it was you.
And then the days stretched into weeks.
One by one, they left.
Some walked away with apologies. I can’t do this forever. I have my own ship to take care of. Some just disappeared, gone without a word. And some stayed just long enough to make it hurt, long enough for you to believe they’d never leave, until they did.
A few promised they’d come back when things were better. Most never did.
You tried to call out to them, to explain that it had been just one mistake, that you never meant for this to happen, that you could fix it if they just gave you the chance.
But they weren’t listening anymore.
So you stopped talking. And you worked.
It took years to get your boat seaworthy again. You hammered and patched and scraped together whatever you could. The hull was stitched together with borrowed nails and mismatched boards, the mast was half the size it used to be, and the rudder groaned with every turn. It wasn’t what it had been before. But it floated.
And for a moment, that was enough.
The open sea stretched before you, familiar and endless, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were back in control. You gripped the tiller, took a deep breath, and pushed forward toward the island you had set out for all those years ago.
But when you finally reached it, something was wrong.
The treasure was gone. The land was stripped bare, pockmarked with holes where others had already dug, long before you ever had a chance. The sea breeze carried only silence, and the realization settled in like a weight in your chest.
You had spent years repairing your ship to chase something that was never going to be there when you arrived.
Standing at the water’s edge, looking back at the sea, you wondered.
Did I fix my boat just to find an empty island?
Or had the journey been the only thing that ever really mattered?
– Ed, never incarcerated
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