My dearest friend, 

I hope this letter finds you in a better condition than when I first reached out. It would be best for one of us to be happy in these tumultuous times, wouldn't it? By now, you're probably expecting another silly soliloquy about my persistent misery and how the life of a seaman, though preached by our comrades as glorious, is nothing but wishing to be in another time and place. You have no reason not to expect that, dearest friend.  

But I'd like to surprise you this time. 

Do you remember my last letter? I told you about the friendly little port town that we would stop in to refuel before heading off to the next battle. I did end up meeting my friends, the ones who were also drafted but appeared content to be here, and we downed torpedo juice by the dock until I couldn't think straight. I opened up to them for the first time and lamented my circumstances. I distinctly remember calling out. 

"The past! The past! How I wish I could go back to the past! If only I knew then what I do now."

The life of a sailor is a particularly fiery hell when you know you're not supposed to live it. I suppose it applies to any life that is yours but also isn't. It's humanity without identity, a blessed mood while imposter syndrome locks its fingers around your spine. I can wake up in my bed bathed by the milky dawn and feel completely alone, even with a thousand companions sleeping beside me.    

I'm mourning the past in my present. But that's redundant. You know that.

You were right, too. They didn't understand. They laughed and laughed until they choked and coughed. They adjusted so easily and now they like it. The life is dangerous, but the call of adventure and novelty makes it worthwhile. 

They cawed liked a murder of crows when I screamed again. 

"I would give my soul to return to the past!" 

I saw them throw their bottles into the sea through the fiery tears. They left me alone on that dock to mourn while they went to some other bar with some other group. Some other group that was perhaps not as deformed as me. I tried to tell myself, in the end, they weren't like you. Who wants friends that leave you for a shinier talking toy, anyways? 

I suppose I do. 

With no people willing to listen, I screamed at the sea, slamming my bottle against the dock and flicking away the shards of glass. 

"The past! The past! Give me a time machine so I can return to the past!"  

This, dearest friend, was the part that changed it all. Not my angst... certainly not that. It was the voice I heard behind me. A crinkly voice like sandpaper. I jumped and turned to see an old man with tan skin and a wild, tangled beard. He was holding out a stone. 

"The past? You want to return to the past?" He asked me. I just stared back at him until he laughed. "I heard you say it." 

"Yes," I choked out drunkenly. He laughed again. It was a wild, unkempt cackle vomited out of his throat like decades old fare. "Does that stone you're holding take me to the past or something?" He rolled it around his palm. 

"It does," he muttered. "I ought to give it to you, but I don't think I should."

"Why?" I demanded, my voice rising with the heat of my temper. "It's just a stone!" 

"This stone is a curse," he mumbled. "A terrible curse."

"Nothing returning you to a better time can be a curse," I responded. 

"I suppose... but I just don't feel right about it. How about I tell you my experience with it before you make up your mind?" I shrugged and nodded. He'd never be able to convince me out of it, no matter what he said. At least, that's what I thought. 

Here's what he told me:

"Many decades ago, I was a young man drafted into the navy, just like yourself," he began. "I too hated my life there. I envied the elderly because they had it all figured out. I envied small children because they had joy I could never possess again. I was maddeningly bitter, spending my free time stumbling around ports drunk and alone."  

"At one particular place, I met an old man. He was covered in wounds from an abusive life, eyes vacant of any soul that he may have once possessed. But he heard my laments better than anyone. At the end of them, I made a passionate wish to return to the past, just as you have. I watched his sunken lips curve upwards in a cruel smile as he took this very stone out of his pocket."

"Take this," he told me. "An old man gave it to me once. Rub it two times and it'll take you to wherever you want in the past. You'll be there for an equal number of days. But be warned, every day you spent in the past will be one you lose in the present." 

"Lose in the present? I had thought to myself. That was no sacrifice when my current existence made me so bereft. I took the bargain instantly, willed myself back in the home of my youth."

"It was the most amazing phenomenon. Everything was as I left it. The room disorderly and strewn with my belongings. My desk cluttered with letters in my handwriting. There was that family photo on the wall. It was me. Emotion welled up in my eyes. I flopped on my bed and sobbed like a reunited brother. But when I stood, there was doubt."

"I had placed those things around the room. The hurricane was me. I hadn't even been gone long. Yet, I didn't identify with it. He made the mess... the person I was before I was drafted."

"I know it's strange. I had been me my whole life, but the person who walked in my skin wasn't me. I felt that I was still the child who lives with his parents, loved his life, had pleasant times without baggage, and in his age was unencumbered and free. Yet, in my old room, I'd never felt so separated from him." 

"I tried to ignore it. I dreaded going back to the present and would jump promptly back into the past. I thought with time it would go away. It only grew stronger."

"I was alienated. I was living someone else's life. His life... the life that was mine but would never be again. I was skin walking, wearing a mask, and pretending all was well. My present was miserable because it wasn't the past, but now that I was back, I could never be truly happy either. I was too scarred by knowledge of who I truly was."  

"The temptation of this stone made me a lunatic. It corrupted both sides of my double life. I tried to rid myself of it, but it would always find me. I learned too late the only reprieve would be if I passed it on. I suppose I'm too weak to even do that."

"I loved who I was so much. Now, I am nothing but a broken Orpheus searching eternally for even a shard of him. He is golden and glorious, forever out of my reach."

"Take the stone if you wish. You may see your past and let it take the limited days of your evanescent time. Or you let me keep it. After you, I'm done trying to pass it on. This sin dies with me."  

I'll admit that I stared at him for a while, contemplating whether or not I'd let that stone change hands. I desperately wanted to return. There were risks, yes. Perhaps the reward was worth it. 

Ultimately, however, I made the choice to decline. Yes, it was torturous to watch him smile and hobble away into the nothingness he came from, but I didn't regret it. 

You'll laugh at me, but I refused because, in that moment, I began to look at life as a gold rush. It's full of people panning for desired experiences. Some get lucky. Most do not. And for those that do, they aren't even content with their fortune. So rather than putting my happiness on where I am in life, I shall direct it to right now, for right now is already gone and this too shall pass. 

Affectionately, 

Your reluctant seaman