Whale tale 1 : gravity, souls and there whereabouts
About whale tale. It is a series of metaphorical tales that peek through the realistic boundaries of life.
No matter where I go, I end up touching the ground. If it isn’t my butt, it is my feet, if it isn’t that it’s my back. I am endlessly attracted to the solid flatness, a place everyone else confides in as one continuity in the ever-changing word.
Souls are born in different coordinates on this planet, some in the darkness where the sun is playing hide-and seek, some beneath the waters, some on a branch sticking out from a mountain, piercing a cloud that thoughtlessly came its way.
Eyes that open will adjust to the amount of light given, ears to the atmospheric vibrations, mouth imitating the vibrations of that space, nose would determine the definition of fragrance. At last when two legs pop out of their torso, and their feet begin to push the ever-constant ground back and lead you on to the next, bring you to mount dimensions, experience the rest of the world with the shape and face of your original atmosphere. While the legs move a heart is made, pumped out, painted red, adorned with comfort and laid with space. Though it should reside within one’s heart, you are not the landlord. One day perhaps a blue bird will float in and decide to stay for good, sing you a song, make the soul incapable without the sound of it then leave without a warning. A heart where the tenant leaves is silent, dead silent, when it looks in an reflection one sees oneself, a silent unresponsive self whose face speaks of an atmosphere the soul was born in. Whose mouth speaks sound taught before it grew legs, eyes only able to reflect the same amount of light and darkness it was born into.
They thought it unfair, should one soul born in a place where their voice grow to be the voice of the wind, stars and birds, while one soul learns from the beginning that abyss and darkness is all there is to the world, one soul grows to be used to constant hunger and thirst, one soul able to fine orange sunshine of its childhood in every patch of disgust.
So souls built new grounds, decimate the natural mass and plunge in planes of immaculate flatness, countless numbers of it above and below each other. Some our blow the ground and some up, but now there no longer is one ground. And everyone was a different definition of ground level, so they climb as high as they can. To have the world beneath their feet, to pierce the sky and claim the world for themselves. But the only thing it can own is a little fleck of the sky it erases in the sight of those who watch from below. The only thing it had pierced through is its own heart which drips loneliness down to the floor.
