There is the urge again. The addiction will not leave, it is back and dangerously close. And this time as the full moon swings into view and the howling starts in the distance he feels the urge again, to run amok among the wild birds, skimming the treetops, an obsession with freedom.
An obsession with gut wrenching exhilaration. He lives for it. He dreams about it. Yet he does nothing. He is careful when he drives, and he never cries, he doesn't have a wife and he is alone. He doesn't know what he is thinking most of the time and these days even his dreams are hazy. And life threatens to pass him in a despairing cloudscape blurring everything from pain to bliss.
How to stop this? he doesn't know. He believes excuses are not the way to go. There should technically be no excuses because nothing is impossible. That is his idiom, his very own idiom. He knows it has been wasted and overused since the beginning of time but to those overused words, he bears a kinship that is unique. He knows that they are true. He doesn't believe in them as one would believe in some abstract concept. He truly, honestly believes that nothing was impossible.
Of course, there are reasons why everything is not possible. There were the limitations cast upon by the laws of physics for example, which are hard to beat. But that is not to say that in some universe somewhere there exists a scenario where gravity was such that the norm was for people to be constructed in loosely attached particle like forms, flowing from place to place randomly and in any direction, including up.
Humans were too naive to actually believe that anything was impossible. Their knowledge did not expand to everything, so how could they dare to make such an audacious assumption to the affect that something in their purview could be deemed impossible! It was nothing less than absurd.
But at the same time while thinking all this, he is aware that he has sunk into somewhat of an abstract concept. But then his mind wanders into the question; what is abstractness? Is not reality another illusion? isn't reality simply called reality because it is the illusion that most people seem to have in common most of the time? Reality is the vision of the majority, the collective dope of the diasporas, the colors of a collective conscience.
But his world sometimes teeters on the edge of this perceived reality. His world is on the edge where colors are not colored the way they are expected to. People do not think the thoughts they are expected to, its a world where human achievement pales in comparison to the natural, a world where poverty, sadness, elation, wealth and despair are all constructs of society invented by the disaporic illusion and put in there as a sort of control mechanism to ensure no one steps out of line. An opposite of an insurance policy and an insurance policy at the same time. And no one really needs insurance to survive, insurance is a trap to false senses of security and therefore an ideal world will not have insurance policies; an ideal world will not have poverty, sadness, elation, wealth or despair.
He liked his little world, and found it hard when it clashed with the much bigger and harsher 'real world'. Usually he was tough enough to withstand. But he barely preserved his balance and therein was his adventure, riding the thermals of society. Preserving his balance and trying not to fall. Plunging into new challenges like a bungee jumper seeking a new truth. A new edge to taunt, a new rope to test. So there, that was his sport. He called it surfing.