A Pirate's Life

I had a friend who would burn his life down every seven years like clockwork. A series of contrived self-sabotaging actions that were guaranteed to have the outcome of losing everything and being forced to start again. A campaign of burning bridges and salting the earth that ensured he couldn’t turn back. It was a conscious awareness of his own need for change, an animal fear of being trapped, a chewing off of his leg. He knew himself well enough to know that he would die if caged, and even if he had to remain caged for a period, he could alter the view by forcing a transfer and changing wardens. He cast himself into the turbulence to make sure he could still swim, a going West into the badlands and enemy controlled territories. There is an honesty and self-awareness in that type of behavior that you can't help but envy and respect even when you are the one being left behind on the bridge as it collapses. You see him riding off into the sunset and you can't muster animosity or anger unless it is toward yourself for not following when he signaled the escape. A shame born of fear remains while you hear the sirens blare and the bolts tumble into lockdown.

At least the pirates had adventure and excitement just beyond the horizon. Unknown lands, unpredictable waves and fates, and the hope of riches and valiant deaths at the end of swords wielded by great hulking black shaped men with fuses burning in their hair and fiery eyes adorned with gun belts and murderous unrestrained passion. We are all going to very predictable deaths without mystery or excitement brought upon by nameless and passionless corporate entities and comically banal automatons of office managers bedecked with PowerPoints and spreadsheets. There is no heroism or even the folly of youthful daydreams in these lazy campaigns toward death. These are not expeditions of bravery that test one's mettle. We are not wiser, or even more secure, tying ourselves to safe moorings.