Sometimes words are jails. Little jails that cage the sensations and perceptions of the homo sapien behind straight, organised bars of black symbols on white paper. Words are rhythmic. Words flow, words ebb. Words have patterns. They curb the wilderness of the mind and tame the thorny bramble of thinking. Words stagnate. Words turn predictable. The permutations and combinations of words as they tumble into phrases and sentences and paragraphs and chapters lends a bare, meagre modicum of difference. Harshly, roughly, violently, all words chain the soul, carve a key to unlock the mind.

Despite being an ardent proponent of the pen, I dismiss it without the predilection I am, doubtlessly, prone to – in its stead placing the ability to feel and perceive without the menacing shackles of expression. I want to feel the warm embrace of a child, and I desire the toxic splendour of the empyrean world of corporate war. I wish to walk only in the company of a brumous wind, but I aspire to dance forevermore with the flower-nymphs. In myself I see dreams and promises, ambition and politics. And in myself I cannot contain them.

I will survive. I have yet to live the life I came here to. The obscure sorrow that afflicts me is that I will die the seafarer who discovers not the ocean route to the New World. A wanderer who is among the ones who are lost. I fear my life will end before I explore the universe – and myself.

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