I Broke Up with Reality on a Tuesday

Let me tell you about my wallet’s dramatic little ritual. This ole thing has a bigger flair for the tragic than Shakespeare himself. Every payday, I pop the clip and it practically sighs its last breath. It's been two years in the Navy, and the little bastard looks more traumatized than I am. Thin... worn... And holding its breath like a veteran of a war, still fighting. But see, people love to preach this myth. That life at sea is glorious. There's free food, lodging's free, and technically the ocean doesnt charge rent. They say once you finish your first sea tour, you’ll come back rolling in money. It’s great theory, told by people who've only ever seen Navy men in their dress whites be cute in front of the camera. They don’t get it. In here, boredom isn’t just boredom. It’s a fucking void. And convenience? That’s the usurious tax you pay on that void. One targeted ad for some Chinese-made garbage, one “free shipping” notification, and bam. The ocean’s big, but Amazon’s tentacles are longer. Don’t judge me. You try it. So no, I haven’t accumulated shit. What I have though is a museum of failed attempts to fill the cavernous, empty hole ever present in my chest. Behold the exhibits: broken earphones that lasted a week, shirts with tags still on that I never got the chance to wear, a cat-shaped humidifier that arrived dead on arrival. Each piece, a masterpiece of uselessness, perfectly mirroring its soul-less master that bought it. It’s art, really. Then there was Crypto. My digital Hail Mary. I told my girlfriend I was “building the future,” and she ate that shit up. Talk about a sales pitch. The future, it turns out, had no plans of giving me that one winning lottery ticket. Two years of studying graphs, looking at news, and r/wallstreetbets has only succeeded in making my wallet look like it's in the negatives. And so, she ended it... With a text so barebones it looked like just another notification from my phone. “You’ve changed.” She said, without any follow-up. The digital equivalent of a bulkhead door slamming in your face, completely indifferent to whether it severs your fucking foot. I reread it a dozen times, not because I was looking for any hidden meaning, but because it left a new kind of silence. And the only thing answering back was the sound of the engines, reminding me that the world is moving at a pace I can't imagine. And that unshakeable feeling that I might be being left behind. Maybe I did change. Not in some kind of grandiose way. But in how I slowly recalibrated. Like, if I went to my hometown, most would look at me like a stranger. I talk less now. I don't feel as much. My laughter is a pre-recorded track I play when it’s socially required. The ocean does that. It scours you down to the fucking studs. It teaches you how to endure, not how to connect. And maybe, I'm slowly losing all forms of connection. At night, I lean on the railing and watch the moon drag its claws over the black water. The other guys are below, playing cards, trading the same five insults. I don't judge them. I know makes it a little bit easier to live if you spend your days like it's not worth a thing. But I'm not disappointed, even after all these things happening. In fact, I've already felt this same exact feeling before. When that first Dragon Ball live-action movie came out, I learned the hard way that life isn't worth hoping for. And that kind of mentality helped me a little, considering life's consistency in letting you down. Some jackass asked me the other day what my plans are after my sea tour. “Get rich,” I told him with a straight face. He laughed. Thought it was a punchline. I won't blame him. Life indeed loves punchlines. I wish I could afford them though. So the ritual repeats. Payday comes. I pay what I owe. I replace what’s broken. I indulge in some pointless comfort that’ll be trash in a week. I send something home, because that’s the tax you pay for being the eldest son, the family’s own personal, low-interest ATM. Then I look into my wallet, hollowed out again. This pathetic thing, and the simple truth that sits there, mimicking hopelessness. I'm not surprised anymore. In reality, the wallet isn’t the one afraid of being left. I like to think it is. I am. By money, by people, by time. All of these are slowly receding away from my life with the same indifferent rhythm as the goddamn tide. Yet. I wake up before dawn. I salute. I work. I eat the slop. I sleep. Rinse and repeat. I still hope. That maybe one day, with enough grit, I might be able to buy peace.