As a child time expands, wrapping around you like a blanket.

It is a ship and you are its passenger, traveling through an early morning fog. Whosever captains this ship–be it anyone at all–chooses what sights to illuminate for the curious traveler.

He steers this way, that way, left, right, up, down, and any which direction. Much of the journey is gray, monotonous, even forgetful. But once in a while the ship breaks through the mist, into a clear ocean.

You gasp with joy.

This new world is blue, moving and alive. Here whales speak, calling to each other in a language long since forgotten. Sometimes a fish will fly through the air and dazzle the clouds with its scales. And if you’re lucky, a dolphin might write its name in the waves.

But as the journey continues, things change. They always do. The fog lessens. Numbers, facts and names come to replace it. The ocean opens up, revealing other ships with other passengers. Soon you forget about the whales and what they said, and how it all made you smile.

And then you find yourself on land. It is time to go. The ship does not remain for long; quickly enough its white sails are a vague outline on the horizon, before being consumed by the fog.

You make do as best you can, doing whatever comes your way in this hard world.

Eventually the journey seems like a dream. Fragments of that almost-forgotten time swirl through the back of your mind, an ever-moving cyclone of vague memories. Sometimes pieces of it come back to you. Sometimes they don’t.

Not a day goes by when I don’t go to the shore and fish, hoping to catch a glimpse of those sails once more.

But I never have.

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