The way the sun beats and the choppy way sound travels make me wonder sometimes why anyone would choose terrestrial life. Though I was disappointed at first when I drew the middle straw that determined my destiny, the more I exhaust myself in journeys to the land the more I miss and even take pride in the anemone blossoms (far too trite an example, let me try again) the whale songs as they echo through the coral palace. Crickets and rainfall are charming, but they are staccato. Nothing endures up there. And nothing penetrates. Fragile ant hills persist only because they haven’t yet been stepped on, and the human beings are not much better.
Here, we thrive despite extreme barometric pressure. Currents, not winds, storm.
Some men dream of flying up there. They imagine themselves simultaneously weightless and in control. They would move by deflecting themselves effortlessly off of phantoms. That is freedom to them.
Here, we know a more potent freedom. We may move anywhere we wish if we will ourselves there. We need only stretch ourselves, push, and we arrive where we have displaced.
