The farmer ploughs the seeds of his existence, the shepherd rears and cares for his flock for his future. The land the link. The sea carrying away their dreams in which the wealth of humanity lies, rolling and yawning, sails driving on and away the ship of sentiments. The grass is always greener, the ocean always bluer.
Cast into the sea an insignificant Icarus drowns in his dreams, which we are told are illusions of grandeur, escapisms, freedom empowered? And as no one notices Icarus’ downfall, they too remain blind to their own fates.
Poverty binds like chains, enslaves the expressions of mind; a social apartheid; there is little chance of dreaming, only mistaking these with yearnings for gods.
That fortress in the sea, a fortress within a fortress, wrapped and enveloped, at once invigorating and asphyxiating. No winners or losers, death waits for no man, no woman, no child, and those would-be-kings fall furthest; for when the stars rage bright and then descend into darkness, does this world even notice?
It is questionable that we even care, noticing such falls is almost obsolete, archaic but even feudal fear is a kingly treasure, for fear drips obedience when wrung out with iron fists.
Where Icarus fell his legend arose, so the fall among men becomes irrelevant because it is all about the rise. Material wealth not humanities health is the prime motivator; you can fool all of the people some of the time, the rhetorical expression underlying the judgement of ‘innocence’ in the despoiled court of success.
Like the ass we toe the line, our dreams detached, our beings entrenched, furrowed and mutilated we had better work for the disparity and inequality we secretly desire, I’m all right Jack because better you than me!
The city looks different yet the roots are enshrined there too. They long to be free of the yoke of claustrophobic anomalies, liberated into the clean atmosphere of rural purity witnessing not the same yoke being worn by country folk. Them and us, higher and lower, whiter and blacker.
The dreams of men are borne out in some ‘other’; educated, uneducated, young and old alike; the painter in the shadows, invisible, indivisible, shaped incognito, we each paint a picture that entombs beliefs and witnessing and experiences and misinterpretations and we call them our dreams. Freedom is a myth, empowerment a folly; Icarus found them both in the depths of the sea, and we like starving bottom-feeding fish are led by their sweet scents to gnaw on his bones.
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