The boat that we are all on

I am on a boat and out at sea.

Cruising on the waves on time, I am drifting further from the island I know, watching as it shrinks in the distance. A fog that shrouds it begins to come into view, and I wonder to myself if it had always been the mystery it looks to be or is it because I am so distant now.

Through squinting I can make out the tiny forms of the inhabitants. Some are waving me off, while others are nonchalant, but I know not all are there. Have they left before me, when my attention was somewhere else? I do not remember, and I do not think I will be remembered either.

It is not an uncommon occurrence to encounter at sea boatmen that I recognise from my island; whether by fate or sheer coincidence. How big is the sea, anyway? Their weathered faces and leathery hands are a representation of the time that has lapsed when either of us left, and I long to hear their tales that I am sure will grip me with their enthralling storylines. But no, I may be floating on time, yet there is no time. The funny thing is that I only know what I am drifting away from, but not what I am drifting towards.