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  • Writer's pictureErin Snedeker

There is a Ship

There is a ship. Perhaps made of sturdy wood or smooth metal. Perhaps pushed by swelling sails or propelled by a gently purring engine. It travels across the jeweled ocean. On and on. Sunrise or sunset sky crimson and violet and gold.

Frothy whitecaps roll languidly, fluidly, away from the hull. The ship protects its treasured cargo as it gently floats across the water. On and on.

It carries the dreams whispered late at night, when we think that no one is listening. When we think that we can finally let down our walls and give breath to our wishes.

The ship is there, outside the bedroom window, just beyond the office door. And the dream curls sleepily beneath the deck.

The ship lulls and tilts with its trove of collected dreams, holding them until we are ready. Until we give in to the precious longing, the sweet ache. There is a hollow in our chests that our dreams leave behind when they slip out on a sighing breath.

The ship is waiting, but also always moving on and on. How lovely would it be to climb aboard? To be swept away on a course of possibility with your dream nestled snugly back in your chest?

A choice. Not as easy as it seems. We must choose which dreams with which to journey.

Under a sky of crimson and violet and gold. On and on toward possibility.

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