A Lighthouse called Desire

This was never meant to be more than a simple post to vent out frustration but sometimes the words cut through the fog like shards of light from a ship lost out at sea. 


The Word needed safe haven and where else than the blank space of a writer’s mind. Yet sometimes that ship finds no haven, the harbor is not where it is suppose to be so the captain pours over his maps, wondering whether he had taken a wrong turn when passing through the Cape of Inspiration. He mulls over the landmarks called Talent, Ideas, Dialogue and Plot yet find no reference out of place. He should be reaching port but port seems to have shifted place overnight.

Our captain slumps into his shaky wooden chair, that creaks under his weight (got to lay off the food, he thinks) and plucks the pencil resting on his right ear. He draws a line from the last port of call and traces it towards the port called Finished Work. Yes, he should be nearing it, he should be able to smell the scent of fresh grass and soggy dirt yet all he smells is salt and the odor of dead fish. 

He frowns.

This is not where he wanted to be. Lost out at sea where the fog is heavy but fog only hangs around land yet where is the sound of crashing waves against rock or seagulls or the chiming of the church bells? Where is this port? He asks himself a simple questions and get a million more in return. He stands and checks his compass, His bearings are right. His directions are sure yet why has he not found land? 

He turns and exit the room, making his way onto deck. The fog hangs like a lazy curtain. White on white and nothing in sight. Darn, this will be the death of me, the thought stings him. He stares at the stars, his father told him that if you ever get lost out at sea, seek guidance from the stars. They would guide you home. So he looks up at the black sky and traces the line of stars with his finger. The North star is where it should be. Sagittarius lumbers above him, Pieces swims by. 

He is where he is yet he is lost.


The whisper startles him.


The word rings again in his ears. He turns around hoping to see one of the crew standing behind him but there are none. They are all below deck sleeping while he stands alone on deck.


Again the whisper speaks as if the voice is the fog which envelopes the rickety ship. Maybe it is the voice of the fog. Or could it be a mermaid sent forth by Neptune to further mislead his way.

“Show yourself,” the captain demands, his hand heavy on the musket tucked away under his belt.


“Show yourself! Foul creature,” his demand is louder. “Show yourself or bid your way.”


“Foul creature, you are. May the heavens curse you for leading a ship of innocent men to their doom.”

“Doom? I merely point you to what you seek.” The voice is melodic, a whisper carried upon the fog.

“Ney! You seek to kill us all.”

“Kill? No. You seek Desire. Find Desire and you’ll find your way home, my dear Captain.”

“You’ll surely send us aground.”

“No. Would we send the magnificent Word to a watery grave? We dare not, for her tale needs to be written.”

His hand is lighter on the musket and curiosity sets in. This is a strange thing, for he has found himself having a conversation with the Fog that envelopes his ship.

“State thy business and be on your way,” he says sternly, a Captain would always be a captain even when addressing a curtain of mist.

“You have all the skills, the talent and the tools yet you lack desire. The one beacon that can guide you home. It is not on your charts rather it dwells where-ever your heart sets itself to be.”

“You speak in riddles. I am a simple man, tell me where is this Desire?”

The laughter is soft, angelic yet eerie. Mocking our dear Captain.

“Point the ship in the direction you want to go. If that is your desire than you would surely find the safety of the harbor.”

“How would I know, I am going in the right direction?”

“You don’t but look out for the lights of the Lighthouse called Desire. It will point you in the direction you need to go.”

The Captain manages a nod, “Who are you?”


He looks around him, “Who are you?”

He is met with silence save for the sound of the ship creaking as it rolls over waves.

He returns to his cabin and look over his maps again and notices something different. Under the light of his flickering candle he notices a new landmark, crossed over by the line he drew before. It sit halfway between his destination and his last port of call. It is a lighthouse labeled Desire.

“Follow the lights, it will point us home,” the Captain echos the voice of the Fog.


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