We’re like people on a huge, well-designed submarine, which has all sorts of lifesaving devices built in, who don’t know they’re in a submarine. They think they’re in a motorboat, and they’re going to open all the hatches because they want to have a nicer view. – David Deutsch
Moving a moment out of frame,
out of attention,
in a critical carving of a knife intended for suicide.
We will die either way
somewhere down the line,
when the pressure gets too powerful,
and the oxygen cuts out
in our vessel we all captain.
Swallowing a blade into a vein,
so we can have some semblance
We the people, in entertaining disguises,
are well removed while our bombs go off above,
before our distinctions are made
of who you are,
philosopher king and captain of only your mind,
although perfect in its universality.
The global community's eardrums break,
by letting loose the valves
for these ventriloquists,
our puppet opportunists,
suffering because we had drawn deep lines in public sand.
We sit with shut eyes in front of a glorious mirror,
in a trance,
before the answers we dare not accept:
That we must draw these daggers away from self,
distrust all otherwise.
Or keep walking silently,
sinking while being subtlety stabbed,
suffering with ears full of water,
coasting unconsciously downwards with windows drawn open.
We can be the space arising,
surrounded by impeccable sustenance,
all our possibilities,
as we float
towards open-ended brilliance,
of all that can be,
joyous above cool seas,
because we fought
to freely feel the breeze.