Word hoard, kenning, old norse word for a supply of words

Play, Pleasure and Games

Energy:
he looked up, punched the pirate in the face, stole his parrot, and hat for good measure, then ran towards the gangway just as the boat set sail
Surprises:
with so much space to think, thoughts seemed to get ever more confusing
Never been written in the English language before:
calamity stormed through the wannabe sailors vacuous mind

Poem/ story using one of the phrases above:
phrase: with so much space to think, thoughts seemed to get ever more confusing
Sitting atop an imaginary mountain she glared over the panorama of her mind's eye. or at least attempted to. car motors guzzled the winter air outside, street lamps spread their depressing gloom within her damp front room. no money and out of time for a real holiday, her only real relief was sit upright on this tenth arse armchair, straight back, and try to let the synapses relax.

lately the practice had become painful. the moment before the calm that normally descended was filled with a calamitous flood of thoughts streamed from the ever increasing nightmare that was her daily life. the nutcases at work, the staleness of single life, lackluster with seemingly no options to escape. how did it come to this?

it seemed that as the mind relaxed the vicious thoughts just accelerated. give space to angry chaos and it accelerates. the pounding of fearful sentences carved tiredness into her skull.

this was a stage in life when a meta-understanding was necessary. to step back, learn how to catch the runaway thoughts, tame them, slow their Brownian motion, direct them along paths etched to humanity in all its social wonders.

a train journey to a weekend away, sat upright on a beautiful hill looking over a verdant hills next to a tent filled with everything necessary for as many days as it will take. tomorrow morning she'll start. camp meal. turn in. dreams start.

moonlight bathes the tent. her eyes follow a single beam over the night. an owl hoots. relaxation spouts the cocophony from home. she persists. the beating drum of doubt takes hold. she tries to smooth the edges of her skull, let the deflections rebound without force, but that's mad it makes no sense. tiredness whells, she fights it back.

dawn breaks. she wakes, blood trickling from her nose. she's freezing.

Free writing for 5 minutes
Seed words (from the age of reason - sartre): added with a | deprecating, | harassed air: 'Of

petulance, this is the end of the story for you young man, your journey's end. the young man exclaimed, but i have only just started, why must it end now before I've set sail. because you are not fit for the voyage, you don't have your sea legs, where's your parrot, do you even know why you are leaving this port? calamity stormed through the wannabe sailors vacuous mind, who cares what this judgmental pilot says, I am going anyway, but wait, maybe he has a point, am i simply running into stormy waters, towards another port where nothing will have changed. doubt streamed from the Portishead song that had chimed in his mind too many times in those dark days a few months ago. every word that rebounded from the corners of his mind seemed to hurt, with so much space to think, thoughts seemed to get ever more confusing. he looked up, punched the pirate in the face, stole his parrot, and hat for good measure, then ran towards the gangway just as the boat set sail. looking back as water stretched between him and his decision he could see nothing. the pirate had disappeared, the port seemed bland, and there was no proportionate drama on this vessel, his new home.