I live through the memories and photographs, for I have learned how to grieve as a beloved. My morality outweighs my desire, and I have learned to become reputable. Accepting "I'm sorry's" with "thank you's" is how I'm supposed to react. Wishing for things I may never have, I often wake to the sound of alarms calling my name, beckoning me to lift my weary soul and thrive forward into the life under the sun. However, I may never thrive again, but merely survive beneath the moon's radiant sister. An artist paints their masterpiece on canvas, a singer exhale their beauty on the window of silence before them, but a writer does not jot down beauty or mastery; instead their pens bleed out their sorrows and grievances. As I go to where Poseidon rules in the early beats of dawn, I tend to tarry along the washy, insipid banks. I imagine a life where the sun will never settle and tuck itself into the deep, flickering horizon. The sun dances for me in the morning, forces me to hover in the midst of dreary dreams at night, helps me wonder what is beyond it. Perhaps nothing, perhaps more of the sorrow I dwell in on this sodden land. I will adapt, they say. I will prosper and grow and learn to be the clueless, unthoughtful man I used to be. Soon enough, they will learn. When they find that Poseidon has drawn in my feeble, flaccid body with the crash of his mighty hands, they will realize they were the clueless ones. They will realize that I had lost the life in me when I had lost his humbling touch.