Back from the island, to which I paid a visit, in the shift of week, where the ghost of adolescence still lingers, in the blue breeze, and innocence was taken by the tide, the lure, of the sea. Butterfly strokes, surfboards, and strands of my hair marching in the whip of the brine air, like strings of a marionette doll; brown, paper parcel of Carolina peaches, with its craggy cut teeth, crumpled into the cusp of my palm; the celestial sphere seasoned with salt stars, and a whisper of clouds, swimming, pendulous, like a bambino's mobile; pale as breath when winter frost knifes at exposed flesh.
Newly 19, a pale, flaming child, of late summer, fevered with ardor, amour, I formulate a promise of heart, to abandon all that dissatisfies, depresses, and subsume a truer sense of being. The tangles of social order, schedules, and salaries, have crept up, snaking round my soul, strangling spiritualism, and intuition. 'No more, no more!" my spirit howls.
Thus, I purchased one-way passage, inked for September 1st, to be swept into aerial atmosphere, and fly beneath the vault of heaven, the North Atlantic Ocean at my feet, dashing thousands of miles, far remote, a departure from all that I've ever known.
Endowed with but a fistful of funds, bank account shaved bare, all that I have is who I am, heart, and soul.
I've flung off the chains of corporations, freed from their spirit-devouring demands for human submission. I will not be owned, thought of like a gratuitous puppet, raped of self and individuality. I protest to being shaped by societal standards, by wagging fingers of spite. Thereupon, I dismount the carousel of customs that is to the naked eye, satisfying, but that only spins in circles, taking the same tattered track, never giving birth to new trails, never obliterating boundaries.
Society will brand me, as a slacker, papa will preach, and still, I'll remain, a free spirit, living like a gypsy, roaming like a vagabond, filling my cup of wanderlust.
I have paused, pinned, at the lip, of a precipitous cliff, calculating, and cautiously curious about the degree of such a descent, away from assurance. For in capering into the chasm of the unknown, my spirit may be clipped, what I have conceived chiseled.
What existence is mine, though, if I purely peer at the possibilities, and forsake my fervor, my fighting chance for crowned dreams?
We are sculptors of our circumstances. Grip the wheel, and blaze straight into the nucleus of your most madcap dreams. Adopt a reckless abandon, to all that smothers the crux of your passion, for if you do not, you submit your soul as a scapegoat to regret. Nothing is foolish that fulfills you.
Therefore, I'm drafting dreams, wishing on stars, and whispering to the heavenly hosts, vowing not to misspend this offering of life, vowing to saturate myself in shafts of sunlight, and all that nurtures the soul. I’ll travel, I’ll surf, I’ll write, I’ll give, I’ll laugh until I’m seized with breathlessness, and when I die, I’ll say, 'my, how content I am with life'.
Please, tell me what you believe to be your most madcap dream. What do you wish for, but never tried for? Then tell yourself, 'it is possible'. Because it is...
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