Everyone in the club except me seemed to know them somewhat at least. It was proof that I didn't spend as much time in the club as I had planned.The cloak and dagger, as I had expected that it would, had somehow become the Ex-pat club for soldiers in the undeclared war. I was determined that the struggles from the real world would not invade the club. It was the number one rule, even higher than the no hanging of weapons on the wall, that no geopolitical discussions enter from outside. When one started, it was the obligation of the other members to remind the transgressor of the rule.I hoped that it would be gently administered, but the directors never specified that it had to be. They did make it known that there was zero tolerance for such crap. All that is why I always felt safe in the Cloak. I had just gotten busy and when I got busy I tended to forget that I was supposed to have a little fun.Fun is one of the driving forces for all humans. That thought came from outside my own. The tears well up in my eyes, and I search frantically for the paddles, but there are none. There is only me, the boat, and the vast blue ocean, dead and silent. When my boat brushes by islands, the inhabitants stare at me with distrust, perhaps even disgust for the fact that I am a lone woman floating on the sea. Maybe they envy me, not knowing I am a prisoner of the ocean. A few call to me in friendly voices, but I no longer speak their language. I can understand them if I try, but I cannot make the words come to my lips. I am alone. I sleep and dream. In my dream the boat has disappeared, the ocean is gone. I am walking through everyday life, yet I am still invisible, still adrift. I work, I eat, I mainly drink. The dream becomes a blur as I become drunk. For a moment I forget I am alone. Only for a moment. As the alcohol soaks into my sleeping self I become further detached. There is no life in the ocean, there is only me. When I awake I find I have washed up onto land. My boat.
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