a tiny boat in the stormy sea

I am beginning to see our lives as tiny boats tossing and turning in an infinitely stretched ocean in a dark, cloudy, stormy night. The mighty waves push and hurl our boats here and there and all that we are left to do is merely to come to terms with the vagaries of the wind and accept it as the reality of our lives. Why does reality have to throw us apart everytime it lets us meet? And why do we meet if we invariably have to be thrown apart by a sadistic stroke of reality? I helplessly see my boat being taken away. I look at my friend boats with longing eyes and slowly they become smaller and smaller in my eyes. Long before late they'd fade in the mist and vanish in the vastness of the ocean. Again I'd be left alone with the continually shrinking memory of past in the cold, dark, tempestuous future. Again I'll look for other boats in order to steal some moments of warmth in the eternity of icy isolation. And again I'll take out my two cold palms and rub them to get some warmth out of them.