Ancient ocean, crystal-waved, I don't understand your depths. At one end of the world your waves are calm and gentle. They're gentle enough to carry me safely through a "Q-ball" night, or a codeine afternoon. On the other side you are daggers, thousands of daggers put together under a mirage spell of water. On days of Tramadol withdrawal, those are the only pillows I want to carry my head. Your essence is deceit.
Underneath the waves is a mystery and man is barred entrance. Ancient ocean, you are the wild boar eyes of man, the animal spirits of economies, and more, so much more than I can imagine, so I symbolize you. I place you into the boundaries of metaphors and similes, and capture your essence and ignore your actual capture. Man can throw his seroquel, his lithium, his harpoons, his automobiles, his penis and soul at you, but you withstand. Ancient ocean, you bow to no one and we fail to conquer you even in the symbolic order.
Utilize your gracious winds, nourish your silly fish, quake our lands, whatever. We don't care anymore. You win, we lose, continue as you will, the skies await. We have bigger plans: the solar system, the heavens, the heart. But don't content yourself. We will return. Don't lure our eyes with tsunami disaster and monsoon ridicule, because we will look. Our gaze, with time, will pierce a hole into your abysses, and we'll come with a pump.
Thanks Maldoror
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