There comes a time in everyone's life when they realize that they must make a choice.
Most wise men and great philosophers of our age and the next stumble upon this universal truth at one point or another in their lives filled with meaning and depth and piles upon piles of wasted thoughts about the depravity and the light in the world.
Rarely, however, do these phenomenal minds realize which choice is the Choice.
Your Choice was your downfall.
"I am the sea." And you are. You have been ever since you first set eyes on the Sea. You were young, you were enchanted, you were easily persuaded. Once She had you, there was no going back. You were Hers for the taking, and once you are Hers, you are Her.
The Sea has inky black eyes, and smooth cool skin, and a mischievous smile, but, most of all, the Sea has warm hands. Those hands that caressed you in the dark, smoothed your brow, tickled your skin, are the same hands that waved you away, tossed you to the side, ripped out your heart and tore it to shreds before your very eyes.
You Chose the Sea over yourself.
Now, after everything is said and done, you find that you long for what every man avoids. You long for the sweet release of Death. She lifts Her hem and displays an ankle for you, swirling Her skirts like a dancer and winking, beckoning. She is icy cold, and you would welcome that cold against the raging fever that consumes you.
Your heart is gone, and you have no essence and there is no man where man should be in you. Some tiny part screams for help amidst the pieces of you, but it is quickly quashed beneath your heel. Those pieces aren't meant to plague you any longer. You shredded them to bits with your own hands, warm and sharp like the Sea, so that you could feel something, anything, but now you find that it wasn't worth the effort.
So you thought, maybe, you could carve out your heart and not be bothered by the feeling of not feeling. But the emptiness that overtakes you bonds with the hellfire in your blood, and you are always restless, never even able to step foot on land but for every ten years, such is that the Sea rules you so definitely. You are Hers, no matter what you do.
And why not? Besides the constant reminder of your enslavement, you keep the musical trinket. The melody contained in it is, in fact, the only thing that lulls you to sleep anymore. The rocking waves do not have the effect that they used to over you. A long time ago, the motion was soothing—now, they just fuel the fire.
Your Choice was loving Her, the Sea, a woman, your torture, your soul, your heart, yourself.
You are Her, She is you, and you both resent it. For what is love to you, but the endless roll of the tide and the battle for dominance over a force that is never completely yours and never completely Hers? It's been so long that you don't know where She ends and you begin, or where you end and She begins. You don't know because there is no starting and stopping place for the two of you.
Even as She lords her power over you, you secret away the bit of leeway you have over Her, and She knows it, and Her eyes flash, but She tells Herself that She will let you for now, even though She couldn't stop you if She wanted. She doesn't want it. There is a sweet sadism in you and She, She and you.
You love yourself, and it is what kills you, every moment of life that you live dead. You love Her, and you love yourself, and you hate everything for it. There is no man where man should be in you, there is no heart where a heart should be.
You are every bit as human as you ever wished you weren't, and you hate it, and it sets the Sea on fire.
There's not much difference between the deepest love and the darkest hate. You don't know where hate begins and love ends or where love begins and hate ends. It's like the noose with which you perpetually hang yourself.
"I am the sea."
You are. You aren't. You're Davy Jones. You are the Sea.