Greetings, Matt Smith.

You're always comparing the Red Masquers to a ship. Now, I know you like ships and all, and it's a commendable analogy. As analogies go, I think it's probably one of the better ones -- although I'm a sucker for a good cliché.
One of the bigger problems with that, though, is that the ship has to eventually dock someplace. It has to stop. A ship can't sail on and on forever without coming to shore for supplies or to get rid of the garbage or to drop the dead bodies off. Sure, there's a lot to be said for "sailing away into the sunset," but the thing about sunsets is -- they get dark.
I'm not sure where all this is coming from. I'm not knocking your ship-thing; I think I'm just sad. It's not an entirely foreign feeling for me, and I'm getting more and more used to the way sadness sneaks up on me. I can be anywhere, just doing my thing -- cleaning, singing, walking through the Armstrong Tunnel -- and all of a sudden, there it is, looking over my shoulder, chewing loudly on really crunchy things and reading my paper. I guess a lot of people would call it a "sinking" feeling, but for me it's not (probably because I'm so bitter about your ship references... and ships sink occasionally, which is not good at all).
It's nearer to nothing. My sadness is other people's apathy.
And it's horrible.
But that's not to say that I'm apathetic about leaving the Masquers. I'm not. I have a lot of feelings about it -- not the least of which is that sadness/apathy cross-breed. I just haven't figured out the best way to say it.
Because my sister says that everything's a show... everything's a story. And being a part of the Masquers is its own sort of story. Leaving them behind makes me curious as to just what sort of story it's been.

Love,
Meredith