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The Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog
They call me “The Wanderer”
The Spirits of the earth named me that.
The title was bestowed upon me
The moment that I realized
That the world was something more.
The world is something more
Than the feelings,
And the perceptions
That are thrust upon it by those who occupy it.
The first time I realized this,
I was a spoiled traveler
From the “modern world”,
Used to having explanations for everything,
By men who claimed to know it all.
In truth, they knew nothing at all;
Were merely illusions,
Conjured up by merely a mortal man,
Trying to make sense of something that does not need making sense of.
I stood atop a faraway mountain,
Feeling like a man with the world in his hands.
It was a fruit, ripe
For the picking,
And I was determined to pick it first.
Suddenly, I gazed around myself
And stumbled underneath it all,
For I felt the full gravity of the world
Rush upon my consciousness,
Like the swiftness of a judge’s gravel after conviction.
I became aware of the sea of fog
“Sigh”, “sigh”, “siiiiigggghhhhhiiiiinnnngggg”!
Against my skin,
Engulfing me in their ethereal embrace,
Smothering me with its weightlessness.
I became aware of the mountains
Seeming to boom down at me,
With a godlike crescendo in their many voices,
“Feel-and fear-my might!”
And I became aware of my own body,
Something I had occupied for around 26 years,
And I noticed,
How the very beat of my heart,
Was in tune with the beat of the world.
And standing above that sea of fog,
My blonde hair unruly in the mountain wind,
And my heart and mind just plain unruly,
I entered a sacred covenant with the world,
And was newly Christened.
For I, The Wanderer,
Had agreed to wonder that great vast world,
Searching forever more
For what it was that made it more.
And in return, I became the world’s fruit,
Ripe for the picking.