Voracious and Unquenchable

I had been trapped in this body and this boat for an impossible number of human years, though I remained vulnerable to said time–my body abbreviated to a simple and pathetic sack of organs, my legs purely for decoration (standing was just as useless as sitting here), and my fingers shaky from the years of writing and writing only.

Since you people–and most people, and myself–are always so interested in humans finding a purpose (notice how I do not use “their” or “the” purpose, readers) in their impetus-less lives, I will tell you that I am not all hopeless, and have indeed found mine. I write. It is simple, but so am I after all these years’ merciless erosion.

The boat was lonely so I was writing for no one other than myself, with the goal being to do something. The boat was plentiful in their supply of a lack of people, a lack of food, a lack of direction, and boredom. You may wonder why and how I was still alive if I describe my situation as so, and I tell you that I wonder in synonyms. If this was indeed a brutish game from some God, then I had long since accepted this Hell (I measured time by the amount of words that I wrote, so there was never any time, ironically, to slack off), or even if it wasn’t some God, but by mere chance that I was stuck there with an abstract sense of survival, then I chose not to believe in that. I would much rather have a fool’s illusion of a God I could manipulate into a friend than have no one at all.

To keep myself entertained, though ‘sane’ would be an equal replacement for that word, I would write about Her. Yes, my God was a woman, and She was beautiful. I imagined She was shy, that She hid behind the golden locks of hair that were the sun rays, that when She blushed of the kind words about Her I scratched into the wooden planks below, She would summon clouds to veil Her tinted face. Sometimes She would whisper to me new themes for a new story to write, and other times when I was more blessed, after an accidental nap, She would whisper to me in my wake and say “time for 4000 written words has passed,” or however long fit that particular scenario. But that was really only sometimes, that fortune being sporadic enough to be chalked up to a hallucination, or the wind. Most times, I was left with a void in my memory about any information about the previous time that had passed, and had to restart writing and counting. Somehow that did not matter. In reality, I was more than positive that nothing really mattered anymore, but I once again willingly and forcefully gave in to hypnotizing myself into having a purpose.

Hypnotizing, fully believing, giving up, were equivalent at this newest round’s seconds, minutes, and hours.

That being said, there was, amazingly, something that differentiated this time from all the others, and that was my lamentable excuse of a boat hitting shore. Down under the main deck, in the crew’s cabin, which is where I usually stayed, I could only see the outside from the bulbous windows, of which seven lined each of the relative left and right boundaries of my finite space, and could only feel the boat rocking me like a shamefully inexperienced mother.

There was a problem that immediately struck me just as turbulently as the boat struck the sand–I would never be able to feel any texture, sandy or rocky or grassy, other than the wood below that had been gnawed slightly by my pacing around. The trapdoor to the main deck above me had a lock and key system, and I only had the lock part. The windows were thickly bent into impossible-to-break half-spheres, and were even solid enough to hold my body weight as I sat on them, yearning for the outside. Clearly, the boat was boredly doing everything in its power to cage me in to these restricting confinements.

Time passed and soon enough, I thought, so did my interest in the foreign territory that stared back at me. The sun reflected off the sand in an angry glare, and out of humanity, I decided that I would not pay attention to an outside that hated me. Inside was familiar, though unvaried. If it looked as if I was struggling during my time in this place, then you would be absolutely correct.

I turned away from the window, stepping back onto the ever-so-slightly dented floor, picked up the woodchip I had splintered off the right wall long ago, and started writing again. At a grim pace, I picked up where I had left off–a new vision I got from Her, starting with the word “The.” Simple, like everything else here. I didn’t care. I didn’t think to care. Such a straightforward and forgiving way to start opens up infinite opportunities for the next word combination.

Following the word “The,” I engraved “Goddess divine.” And following that, since I was thirsty, I engraved “gave the poor man a glass of water.” Wishful thinking. I had long since (I assumed this temporal increment) forgotten my name or if I ever had one, so I referred to myself as “the poor man,” because that was, unambiguously, what I was.

I fell asleep.

My sleep was sudden as all things are, and I didn’t know why I would let myself do it after only exhausting myself by writing 11 words. In retrospect, I should’ve been more curious about the shore and let my curiosities linger in that direction, because the experience that I had following that short (a temporal adjective picked at random) slumber, I could not explain, nor would I ever wish it upon anyone else.

After my dreamless and soft sleep, the sun rays still managed to hold their grudge against me, and were none the more kinder. The heat, of which I was used to dealing with but was exponentially increased with the sun’s reflection off the white sand, was more unbearable than usual, as per my description, and this magnified my thirst. I propped myself up on my elbows and looked down at what I had written, at the start of a hopefully long and fruitful story. Then I switched my gaze to the window, then to the wall, then to the silent glass of water that also stared back at me through slightly fogged-over lenses.

Huh.

I was thinking of the exact same thing that you are most likely also wondering about at this moment–how did it get there? Such an obvious question, however pertinent all the same. Because, really, how did it get there?

I looked from it to my writing, from my writing to it, and so on and so forth until I processed that it was my Goddess Herself who had blessed me this way. I got on my knees, put my hands together in prayer that I had seen too many times while I was off this boat to forget, and screamed with all the voice I had left in me, though it was slightly raspy due to my dehydration, “Thank you, my love! The love of all!”

It was then, after sitting for a few moments in appreciation for Her, I crawled over to the glass of water, and drank, and what tenderhearted water it was! Exactly the temperature that I wanted, because She knew exactly what I needed, what everyone needed. But it was only me on this boat, and only Her in my world, and everyone else might have been dead. She paid attention to me. She knew I was struggling, yet somehow my writing got to her. Aha, thank God for that!

I engraved a “Thank you, Goddess divine” under my previous sentence, just in case She hadn’t heard my oral acknowledgement. I finished that water in a seeming instant, and placed it down next to the writing. It stared back at me, pushing me to continue where I left off.

“Oh, Goddess divine,” were my next words, but nothing came after. I had nothing to talk to Her about anymore, to my dismay. She whispered in my ear “write about some grand adventure,” so I did.

After 3568 words, I had a complete story about this man, whom I named Dana, who was also trapped on a boat, but he had friends with him. His adventure was about escaping the boat, and this allowed me to extend my imagination beyond my confinements. I predicted that his outside world would be like mine at the start, sandy and rocky and grassy, as aforementioned, but after that, I drew the longest blank, and then slept. I woke up the next morning to finish the story, and Dana had, since then, encountered two more people, saved a small village from a crab infestation, helped two kids escape a flood, and in the end, he burned the boat to demonstrate his unwillingness to go back to his previous life.

I would never aim to pursue this, despite my specific and somewhat similar at the start predicament, so that’s why it is in writing.

My hand flailed after I finished, my eyes shut, and I acquiesced to the rest I felt I deserved.

I woke up, hungry and thirsty. The latter had turned into an unfamiliar feeling from that moment since I had recently, I thought, drank. I knew I would be greedy if I asked for something more, since that glass of water had been the refreshment of a lifetime, but I did. My stomach and throat controlled my hand instead of my brain, and I made no conscious effort to stop myself. I engraved, “The Goddess divine then gave the poor man a glass of water and two boiled eggs.” I passed out from hunger and woke up to find both of my requests (I didn’t want to use the word “demands” since I thought myself to be kinder than that) in front of my face. I consumed my requests without hesitation nor shame. If she was watching me right now, she would be disgusted, but for some selfish reason, I did not care to make myself look decent.

Everything was gone in the span of around 5 handwritten words. I sickened myself, literally, with the speed and threw it up in a corner. My stomach was filled and now drained, and I couldn’t possibly wait for a new meal after my disappointing encounter.

The next time I asked, I savored the food. My body now had to get used to the constant (because from then-on, my requests were, indeed, following a constant flow) food and drink. But it hurt so much to do so, because it seemed as if I was hungrier and increasingly more parched every new time I awoke. No matter for my body, I wouldn’t need to worry about it after I was stuffed, and during my adjustment, I was sure that I would please Her since I no longer threw up and looked as crazy as I did the first round.

One moment, instead of only wishing for something to orally consume, I wished for a book. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? I stupidly asked myself. I thought of how much faster I could write, and also all the effort it would take to get used to the motion of it. No matter. I had written in my lifetime before the boat, and I was sure that it wouldn’t take a while to relearn the action.

She gave me a book, after a slumber, and I instantly filled it all up with my ‘thank yous,’ and then I asked for another book. I fell asleep on the floor and expectantly woke up to find it. This time, I had filled it with more requests–I asked for more food, since I was hungry as Hell, water, since I was thirsty as Hell, and, whatever, I’ll admit I asked for more food than necessary, and a large variety of drinks that wasn’t just water.

This process was now a perpetual pattern I had rehearsed legion times, and was more familiar with it than the planks surrounding me that I had counted, measured, touched, and tasted infinite times. Wish, sleep, receive the object of said wishes, thank Her, sleep again, repeat. This was perfect.

After this specific rest, I, like always, woke up and received everything that I had asked for, a boring sentence to repeat. She has such good taste in decoration and presentation, because the food was laid out on a banquet table, even including chairs, forks, knives, spoons of every variety meant to supply every course imaginable, napkins, and everything else that you can assume comes when dining in Versailles.

This time, I went slower when approaching the food. Slower than my normal pace. She had skillfully presented everything, so I would take an equal time in savoring each meal–and yes, that meant that I would eat every dish on the table. I was starving anyways, my stomach laughing louder than a cackle of hyenas, and it would be rude to turn anything down since it was I, after all, who had asked.

I ate. Everything was nothing short of what I thought to be Michelin–the feeling a wounded veteran gets when they return home to find their mother had cooked their favorite, or the feeling of a friend bringing over soup after you called them to mention your sickness. Satisfying. Pleasing. Satiating. I played with the food on my tongue, smelled it, asked it questions–“Excuse me, Mister Stuffed Chicken, but how did you end up this way?” “Pardon for my inquiry, Mademoiselle Marmalade, but what makes you different from any normal jam or jelly?” I had fun, and was satisfied, no other adjective matching the exact feeling I encountered.

And pattern, after habit, after routine, that was the only feeling I ever got. I no longer threw anything up and was able to fully appreciate my food and drink like no man alive or dead. Several, uncountable times this had happened, and one day, feeling a physical manifestation of the gratitude I felt for Her, I fell asleep, wishing for nothing more. I had an inexplicable change of heart, and I didn’t want Her to be constantly supplying my greed.

For the millionth time, I woke up again, since, with Her help, I had managed to survive that long. But this sleep was alien to me. My stomach had a more carnivorous sound than a lion’s growl–it gnawed into me: my sides, my ribs, my liver, intestines, and bladder. I had pissed myself where I laid. My stomach grumbled with more ferocity than an earthquake, and my windpipe shriveled so much, it choked me.

How is it that I am now feeling in extremes? I was always hungry and thirsty each time I awoke, but why is it I feel inexplicably and undeservingly different? This occasion, that question mattered, because it was unlike any experience words could describe. In this case, the English language’s words limit my expression, for there is no possible way to describe one billionth of the suffering I felt.

I reached for my notebook with a pathetic arm and wrote “Goddess, what is wrong with me? Can you fix me?” even though I doubted she would respond to a question.

I was proven immediately wrong, as she whispered in a windchime-like softness “You may be stuck in a situation most aren’t, but you are still nonetheless a Man, are greedy like Man, and vulnerable, like Man. You have done nothing to deserve what you call a punishment other than the fact that you were born with this nature engraved in you.”

Such a contrast I had not expected from her–the tender voice and the jagged words.

I wished I could respond back, but I was physically unable. Trashed, flabby once again, and plaintive, I passed out again, and I, regrettably, could not tell you when was the next time I woke up.

Church bells distantly sounded, but everything went black, forever. I always assumed death would lead me to a light at the end of a tunnel, but I was wrong. It’s nothing more than a barbaric abyss.

===Appendix (don’t rupture)===

The Poor, struggling Man can wish for anything he wants at the limit of his imagination, and any amount of it when he writes it in his notebook, scratches it in the wood–any type of writing. However, the amount of objects he asks for plus 1 is the exponential factor by which his sleep increases

Say he sleeps for a human’s 8 hours one time. If he wishes for one glass of water, his body will be vulnerable to the consequences (specifically hunger and thirst) that occur when one sleeps for 8^(1+1) hours, which would be 64 hours.

Say he sleeps for 4 human hours, but orders four cooked chickens. Once he wakes up, he will physically feel as if he had slept for 4^(4+1) hours, which is 256 hours.

Also, because he is experienced in writing quickly, and no longer has a need for engraving or scratching, he can write at a speed of 19 handwritten words per minute.