troubled sea

Did you know? When octopuses are caught in the act of moving rocks and destroying the hard work of their aquarists, they drop everything and slowly back away like nothing happened.

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Odysseus, on his journey home to Ithaca, was visited by a ghost.
The ghost tells him that once he reaches his home, once he slays all his enemies and sets his house in order, he must do one last thing before he can rest.
The ghost tells him to pick up an oar and walk inland.
And keep walking until somebody mistakes that oar for a shovel.
For that would be the place that no man had ever been troubled by the sea.
And that’s where he’d find peace.


In the end, that’s all I want.
To walk away from the sea and find some peace.

Flint in season 1, episode 2: The ghost tells him to pick up an oar and walk inland and keep walking til somebody mistakes that oar for a shovel. For that would be the place where no man had been troubled by the sea and that’s where he’d find peace. In the end, that’s all I want.
Season 4, episode 10:

Me: *INCOHERENT SCREAMING AT THE FORESHADOWING AND PERFECTLY EXECUTED NARRATIVE ARC*

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black sails rewatch - II. 

Odysseus, on his journey home to Ithaca, was visited by a ghost. The ghost tells him that once he reaches his home, once he slays all his enemies and sets his house in order, he must do one last thing before he can rest. The ghost tells him to pick up an oar and walk inland. And keep walking until somebody mistakes that oar for a shovel. For that would be the place that no man had ever been troubled by the sea. And that’s where he’d find peace. In the end that’s all I want. To walk away from the sea and find some peace.

“This very second has vanished forever, lost in the anonymous mass of the irrevocable. It will never return. I suffer from this, and I do not. Everything is unique and insignificant.”

- Emil Cioran, The Trouble With Being Born

Art:  Caspar David Friedrich. The Monk by the Sea, 1810.

me: stop being so dramatic

me: To be, or not to be- that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die- to sleep-
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die- to sleep.
To sleep- perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub!
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay, 
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life, 
But that the dread of something after death-
The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns- puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of? 
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry 
And lose the name of action.- Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia!- Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins rememb'red.