The ships break through the sunrise now—splitting the horizon, a phoenix rising. It lunges towards the sky, bobbing up and down atop the ethereal plane. The ground is nowhere to be seen, hidden beneath the multi colored haze.
Streaks of wind materialize from behind the wall of whiteness, clawing through. “We must stay steady,” someone says. “Look at all the clouds.”
We pass a waterfall that sparkles—pouring down souls from heaven to earth, or rather back up again. Red smoke falls, and raindrops rise. But we go on, maneuvering past the spots of blood, liquid lines of desperation.
Far above, figures of swans and dark men emerge and disappear, criss-crossing to and fro around the pane of canvas.
“Sometimes, nothing emerges from something. Everything comes from nothing. And nothing is everything.”
So it is, and the captain dives and floats dreamily off into the distance, caressed by a bitter green fog.
Such is the rapture of being alive—our necks craned upwards towards the beautiful streaks of something intensely real. We do not need to know what they are, except that they are indeed real, untouchable, undeniable, blessed with the luminescence and fluidity to be vivid and stunning. And they drip in slow motion downwards like vines wandering in search of light, like us searching aimlessly for love. We break through the fog now. What is there?
“Land! The illusion of land! The mist of unreal gems, hopeless meaning!”
Men, women, children, dogs, cats, cows—all crying, sobbing incredible tears that flood the sky, splattering our vision with a film of obscurity. We can’t even see the maenads reaching out anymore, as we drown in our dream of infinite sorrows. The whispers of deadness, fleeting, bubbling, forming faintly colored silhouettes.
There is laughter in the distance. The colors shift into their places, into regular lines—we sail on, riding the curvature of a temporary rainbow, watching the world burn with passion.
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