My Precious Bubble at Sea

I choose to stay in my bubble. Sitting down. Typing. Writing. Thinking.

I look at the world through my eyes and never see the world as it is.

I see it as I want it to be.

Maybe I want it to be this way for I fear what it truly is?

Reality may not be as I imagined.

For how could I imagine the inconceivable?

The unknown.

You only know reality once you live it.

Feeling it.

Not observing.

Through my filters and through my projections,
through my prejudices and through my desires,
I see a world that is mine.

Constructed.

Imagined,
desired.

Yet this world is not mine.

It never has been.

It never will be.

For it is not mine nor anybody's to possess.

---

On the stage, the band performs.

On the canvas, the artist paints.

On the stove, the chef cooks.

On the wave, the surfer surfs.

Our world is a stage, a canvas, a stove and a wave.

We can dance.

Express.

Create.

Ride.

Yet we cannot hold.

Or we embrace reality.

Or we observe it being embraced.

---

Then so be it.

Observe.

Sit in the crowd.

Attend the museum.

Dine at a table.

Wait at shore.

Judge.

Boo the band.

Criticise the artist.

Complain to the waiter.

Point out the wave the surfer didn't take.

But know that you do it all from a position of comfort.

A place where you do not engage with reality.

For you do not dance on the stage.

Nor do you express yourself on the canvas.

Little do you create.

Missing every wave.

Comfortably.

Arrogantly.

At shore.

Without the courage to dive in the ocean and step into the unknown.