September 24, 2018 | Occasus | Issue 8 | Creative Nonfiction
Running in Circles
We’re in the middle of the ocean, on a bed, in a boat. Summer is long gone and autumn is already leaning into winter. Beneath the greying skies, the frigid water churns. On the top deck, the cruise ship’s hot tubs teem with people. The pools sit nearly empty as wind sweeps across the deck. For twelve days, the sea surges and froths, licking at the ship’s glossy sides. The bed lifts and falls with the waves. Up, down, up, down, up, down.
The rooms on the ship are small but carefully arranged. Everything folds into something else. The desk pushes up into the wall and the ironing board tucks away into the closet. I share my room with a man I thought I knew, but as the days pass he unravels into something unknown. Something dark. The room grows smaller every morning. Our window looks out over the prow of the ship; I sit in front of it, hovering above the horizon as the sea grows stormy again. I feel myself folding into myself. One morning, I venture to a lower deck and discover a faded track circling the ship. I dodge out of the way of runners who jog past with their heads down and headphones in. They’re focused on where they’re going: in circles, nowhere. The boat whirs its way through the waters, but we are contained by its decks, by its offerings of distraction. When I was young, I loved to run. I still run every now and then, but only when nobody can see me. In the countryside, the roads unfold beneath your feet. You keep your eyes to the ground and look out for potholes. You run to feel something. The heart roars in your ears like an ocean. It beats against your eardrums; it sings the song of your life. You are alive. You are, you are, you are. A ship is not a place for running. It could be a place for hiding, but only if you are alone. There are hundreds of little rooms, many of them windowless and dark with television screens set to outdoor views. The starchy white blankets and fluffy pillows are piled high on the bed. You could disappear inside these rooms, but you cannot run when there is nowhere to go. As the ship makes its way slowly through the waters, I picture our route dotting across the ocean. The closer we get to shore, the brighter the sun becomes. The deck above turns festive and cheery, filled with fruity cocktails and sunbathers in bright bathing suits. Dolphins glisten like glass as they skim through the water. I watch them from my window and wonder where they’re going. When land finally glimmers before us, I wonder the same. Still, it takes two full years to unfold: two years of the heart beating at the ears, two years to leave him. Two years until finally, I walk the plank. Up, down, up, down, up, down, alone in the middle of an unfamiliar ocean. |
JENNY BERKEL is a singer-songwriter and poet from rural Ontario. In between playing concerts across the globe, she studies at Western University. Her most recent album, Pale Moon Kid (Pheromone Recordings), was released in April 2016. Her writing has been featured in The Literary Review of Canada, Occasus, and The Puritan’s Town Crier.