Shipwrecks

People and shipwrecks have been discussed before. But did they, the narrators, not know that man himself is a wreck? He is, ambigousely, the boat and the cliff upon which he rests destroyed. He's the immobile, clear vision, but also the opaque one, hard to spot without a personalised compass. Alas, the sails of despair are always rising! And, within an inborn bovarism, handed out just like a baton during a marathon, we sail in a sea of illusions, achored only in our very own body, within tar and dirt, the coldest of our colors. A child is prepared, ever since the first time he lays his eyes on the world, to handle the steering wheel. Dirty and alone on his ship, he seeks survivors. And we know he'll only find ghostly reproductions of himself, his mirror-souls, but he's still satisfied with his discovery. 
The dependent and the independent. Which one of thse two is the luckiest? The detached or the suspended? Is it prefferable to drift away, with no goal in mind, or to stay on the same shore, your shore, a lifetime, an eternity? Perhaps this is where we're mistaking, for human beings, life is the synonim of eternity. Since phisical constraints do not allow us to know immortality in an intimate way, we associate it with life and we'll never know it in any other way. We excell throughout dreams (both the mental images and phenomena which appear to us in our sleep and our vain illusions, our unfeasible aspirations). These longings are the hole in our leaden boat. We often awake, in the morning, trying to ressurect a dream, to bring it back under our eyelids. This cerebraly forbidden dream is the reason that anchors you in one place instead of another. I do not understand why dreaming got to be positive, why we sell dreams and we can often encounter commercials like "fulfill your dreams / turn your dreams into reality"...  Do they not know that dreams are but a masquarade, a faded representation with the the same actors of our reality? Yes, science tells us that in our dreams we only see faces we've seen before, in the concrete world. The postman that handed you out a letter, five years afo, can become in your dreams the executioner who's chasing you towards the abyss. I now understand the positivity of dreaming. It's closer to infinity that the negativity of reality, even if, paradoxally, the both have the same root, the same common features. The Mathematics of the mind is the most exact science, and still it's labeled as abstract, eclipsed by destiny.
  This could be cause by a general refusal of accepting closeness and their endeavour to emhasize on distances. The desire of individualisation has never been this strong, but still we live, without us knowing it, in the age of a nudity of the character. We've thrown off, in time, the savagedom of the Middle Ages, the religion of the Inquisition, the clothed the Renaissance, but now we're peeling ourselves off, by abandoning our thick skin, too scarred to be worn. Hope colapses, dusted and rancid, just like some sand castles, just like some ancient citadels. One cannot wrestle with the weather, by going against the tide. The tide's current is just as strong as an intelectual current, a tendency, people rott just like a wet piece of wood. We fear of time running out on us, but we're humbly measuring it with sophisticated watches. We modernise, we upgrade, we underline, we feel important, but only when we have at hand a measurement for own importance - another human being. Our watch will never help us and I'm surprised that it lasted so much or that we look at is so often. In the end, it's just another exact measurement of our mortal nature. It is because of this we've invented ourselves new dirrection to run towards, but, just like in the case of a circle, all the radii lead to the center. Our center is death' we are forbidden to forget it, it has commanded us to wear its watch that apparently shows us we're moving forward, despite the fact that we're regressing towards the center where many have gone and will go, over and over again. We fear those who surround us, but we seek them more often that we seek ourselves. Fearing the self shoult be just as contemporary, just as alive as all these machines that suffocate us. People should not forget themselves. Only by fearing oneself, one can develop deffense mechanisms, which we consider to be created in order to defend us from those around us. All of this - because we're now at war. It's no longer an atomic war, a revolutionary war, a war of ideals, but a war agains the self. The nudity of the self, depersonalisation, is the most obscene sin of our time. We're melting down our windows, we're destroying our boundaries to head towards the sea, seeking in its infinity a personal infinity. Each touch stands as an emptiness, each new words bends the melted iron of all we know and take for granted. Are we pouring ourselves, transparently, in an universal sea? Are there no more places inhabited by essence? Are we cultivating our minds or are we destroying the self? Can we be ourselves throughout the others? And if we can, are we happy for this? Each man should discover his own wheel, his own fire, his own dialect and his own death. Without questioning and thought, the impossible will reign us.