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Beyond the Sea

They wonder why they cannot hold me down, pin me down, tag me and label me as they wish.

Number 8-9-8-7-3-1! They yell out to the man right before he jumps off the bridge, yet they cannot touch me.

Swerving the corners of the rotten landscape of the proverbial capitalist movement, I sense the rush, the adrenaline, the feel of it all as the world succumbs to the fallacies of a charlatan truth (because they are blind, and they are yet to know it).

I can show you that I am radical. I cover the spectrum, shatter the stereotypes and swing off the tree at an accelerating pace to expand in velocity; I crash into the stars and let fall the world onto my shoulders.

My enemies are there always: Time and space. Analyse me to the degree to reveal what is not shown, and you will find that actions reveal more than what is to be seen (and that you, too, may be blind).

Blind, I say. Enclosed within boundaries which will not let you let yourself go. You have options, you realise. You must. Yet you stick to your comfortable zone in order to be safe and sound (but you see, my boy, that is your problem).

Jung-style: Introverted extroverts meet their oxymoronic brothers the extroverted introverts, but to what degree will you feel crowded/happy/alone?

After you have jumped from Point A to Point B, there is Point C over the horizon. I have been there; it is nice.

And when you have reached Point C, over the water and under the bridge lies Point D, waiting to be touched, to be felt, to be kissed and hugged. This is your spot, kid. This is what will set you apart.

Labelling cannot be allowed, cannot be done nor practised once you have made it past the collective points, of which there are an infinite amount.

It becomes a game from then on. A race, a chase, if you will. Claim yourself the hero and escape the oppression that your previous world has forced upon you. (Remember the days of old when you coloured outside the lines just because you could? Ah, those were the days, and those are the days that are to be here again.)

It is not an existence of the collective we, but rather the I. This is not to be mistaken for the meaning of life, but rather as an instruction that will possibly lead you to the meaning of life.

This is not science. This is not mathematics. This is not language arts or social studies. You get tested, but only you yourself know the grade.

It lies in your fingers, in your bones, in your spine and the heart and the brain. The jolt that carries across every neuron of yours are caused by it. To mother earth we owe it, and peace within us we must make during it.

I will call it life in order to keep it simple, but even I can only really find out by experiencing many wide and varied experiences; experiencing experiences such as getting a phone call while you are sleeping that wakes you up, and the caller has nothing to say after your voice says hello except, “Sorry, wrong number.”