SMOKING HOPE

I pack my pipe tight and light it up and watch meditatively as the smoke spirals upwards , 

Bone weary and brain dead , I ask myself a thousandth time , "Am I addicted to this stuff?" 

I know I am. I have been smoking too much Hope these days. 

“It is worse than Opium” , someone had told me. And they were right. 

My sea legs aching, I get up wearily and survey my surroundings , 

I have rowed for another year now. I look around , trying to get my bearings.

“The shore doesn’t seem very far away” , I think to myself , “or wait is that where I started from?”  , I can not tell anymore. 

I take another drag of my pipe. May be the compass will help

I take out my compass . It is broken . I shake it vigorously. Still broken. I guess it was always broken. I don’t remember anymore. 

I take another drag of my pipe. May be the Lighthouse? 

But wait , am I supposed to go toward it or away from it . I cant tell anymore. 

I take another deep drag in panic. Let me look for other boats , I tell myself. And I look around

Everything is obscured by mist and fog. When was the last time I actually saw another boat, I ask myself. I cant tell anymore. 

I am panicking now. Has it been a year now? I think it has been five? Or ten? I cant tell anymore. 

With shaking hands , I pack my pipe with more Hope. And take another drag. 

And then I see them – the sharks in the water. 

They have been with me for as long as I can remember – following me silently , just waiting for me to drop dead one day.  

They can smell fear and panic. And they are circling closer today. 

I sigh. I take up my oars again with my calloused hands. 

Wincing I start rowing again. 

Am I not bound for anywhere? Have I been just rowing to stay ahead of the sharks? I cant tell anymore. 

I take another drag of my pipe. 

Smoking Hope is what keeps me going. That’s the only thing I can tell.