An ocean is spread before me. I squint my eyes against the sun glinting off the deep blue waves. A mermaid thrusts her mystical head above the water. In the short glimpse I get of her, an indelible impression of her mysterious beauty is made upon me. Those were tangible virtures, I think to myself. If only I could dive in to follow her and become a mermaid also.
But instead of diving in, I stand on the shores with the waves licking my feet gently like a sphynx beckoning me to her pyramid. My feet are frozen. An icy wall stands up against me.
I'm immobile in the shallow waves of the existence I long for.
If you squint your eyes against the blinding rays, doesn't it seem like the banality of life is comparable to this?
Where's imagination? A faculty falsely fostered in childhood by consumerism. Lack thereof is eating up creativity. The well is dry. The cycles keep spinning their slow, plodding circles.
I am perched on the edge of the stone wall, waiting for the rain to fall.
But before it comes, there are insipid duties to fulfill. And this tiny sampling of life to come is exactly why I am not optimistic. It's an asphyxiating slavery.