I often interpret philosophy as fact-- metaphysics is embedded as definite science in my mind. Might I be as half-witted as the sons who declare “moronic” on the fathers of philosophy, I too would be naive. But in this insecure upbringing, I’ve learned to never stray from this so-called “moral compass” I don’t know who created, because its sought me to safety like a lighthouse in the midst of a colorless, wavering ocean. A safety a nomad like me needs, but doesn’t want. I’m nostalgic for the oceans-- where mystery is always your destiny, where you can sink into midnight at noon, and live in your own cold blood, warmly. That mystical life doesn’t construct zones of safety because every creature knows it’s fictitious. Naive, because its the wisest way to ingest hope. But I stay posted on this lighthouse-- this counterproductive search for wisdom, shining lights along the ambiguous horizon I’m blind to as it fuses into hidden constellations: a black, blissful sky, searching for more people to blind in black, blissful skies. And if it were up to me again, I’d immerse my head and sink. Physics could have smothered the metaphysics diluting my mad, mad mind-- once and for all. Call me half-witted like the others, but metaphysics is, too, fictitious.