12 August 2012
I am the product of my surroundings. Shaped, manipulated and surrounded. Making tiny Olympic circles in the dirt. I know it's sand but I'm led to believe its all granite, That my views, opinions and observations are not organic.
Am I guilty for not travelling further afield with the holidaying masses? Occasionally I witness a ship out on the horizon through bifocal glasses.
I am stuck here on this man made beach chasing my own tail. Voices tell me how, when and why I'll fail.
An ancient book is thrown and lands at my feet. To conquer my self and journey with the Ibiza folk I'm told I must read.
Reluctantly I finally make sense of the cryptic language as the voices continue to preach. Altho I am no more wiser as the ships are still out at sea, yet the tide has now flooded this beach.
I think long into the year as the moon pushes and pulls like a heart giving life to the sea. Still the ships don't come in but their smoke blows high and it surrounds me.
I ask why the ships don't come in I'm told it's all a mirage as they begin laughing, That there are no ships and it's all in my mind, If I had understood their book I could have left this beach in my prime.
As the smoke settles and I scratch the itch in my soul, I begin to use the knowledge I have learned and build from what I know. Using my surroundings I create tools and cut down a willing tree, Carving it into a canoe I paddle out into the darkness of night to the ships that I know I can see.
After many moons and suns alone lost out on the ocean. Exhausted, dehydrated and on the waves of death I'm going, I hear new voices, inspiring sounds and interesting smells. I climb aboard a familiar looking ship called "Hope" and finally I'm saved from my living hell.
Knowing Ships On The Beach • Opuss № I