The Ocean is one. Just one lonely body. And everybody loves him. They admire him and they smile with him. But they don’t know him. And no one knows him.
The Ocean is sad. Because he used to be, once was, love. A beautiful love, with a beautiful creature of light. A body of warmth and brilliance just equal to what his had once been. And together they were everything, held everything.
Every weightless, breathless, thoughtless spin
Every tortured soul who relishes in their own sickened melancholy deep and low.
Every wet smile and dewy embrace
They let the birds float and the people spin
Freedom for all in their love
But then came a man, one of many powers and many rules.
He wanted it all for himself. He recognized the freedom in the float and wanted it to be his and only his. But when he tried to join the others, he felt he began to sink.
“I’m sinking, I’m sinking!” he yelled to the fleschy bodies twirling above him.
“Help me” he called out as his toes stretched down to a chilly darkness.
“What are you saying?” They asked with questioning eyes. They had genuine confusion, as if the idea were completely foreign to them. He returned an incredulous face.
“I’m sinking, going down, lower!” He cried. He craned his stodgy neck to see them, yet they continued to float and not move to help him with the urgency he had expected. What was wrong with these people? Looking down, he realized where this path would eventually take him. Below he saw the trash. The dirty, filthy, greasy, bloody, gooey, crusty, itchy, pussing, calloused, snaggle-toothed, no-toothed, money-loving, half-starving, in-bred, degenerate, sex-crazed, diseased product of humanity. The mob, grinding hard and writhing entangled, reached up for his essence. To grab it and pull it down into the muck of society.
At the sight of this fate he kicked his legs and flailed about. But the man soon grew tired, for he felt his own body betray him and force him down to the filth. As his body and will weakened, his kicks grew softer and more hopeless.
He looked up at the ethereal wisps of life. How could they float? He had all this power, all the power in the world, and yet he sunk and they float. As he surrendered to the pull, in his last frame of possibility he wished for nothing more than to float.
But to his surprise, the man survived. He lived. However, everything was much different underneath. Instead of floating, everyone was stuck on this straight line. And it was crowded on that line. So crowded that there was not enough room for everyone, and so people fought all the time. They lied and they cheated and they hated and cursed. They stole from each other just so they could have more.
And they killed one another to make room for themselves.
They all treated everyone with the same blackened mouth and so they became no different from one another. They were one in the same evil. One under him, and he liked it that way.
But it nagged him. Because he knew, even if they didn’t know, that he wasn’t quite the top. He wasn’t IT. He was still under them, the floaters. Oh, how he still longed to float. Oh why, why couldn’t he float? He couldn’t stand to be low, to live below because he, himself, was not.
Yes he still had power. And then a thought.
“Love is of the TWO, and freedom is of the love. The float is found in freedom. Kill the love and steal the float. No freedom can be forged without the TWO.”
So the now hopeful man conjured up his power. He gathered the figures of pestilence into his arms and thrust them into the freedom and with their greedy, grabbing hands they tore at the clean flesh of those who were free. They cupped their clammy palms around virgin ears and spat impressions of hate into them. They dragged the happy innocent. They lied and confused them with worldly views and society’s expectations, they falsified existence and meaning and contradicted things that never were. And soon enough the life was gone.
The beauty and the brilliance, the love and the light. The man had been right. The TWO could not survive.
And so she died. Blankened to a hazy grey. Cold and lifeless, the love, she has gone.
And so he remains, to this day, one lonely body, one giant body below,, sunken down now, no longer full.
He sits there, staring up each moment at the space she once occupied. Watching the emptiness, vigilant, waiting, hoping that one day she would return. Now at the bottom, he reaches up, grabbing, over and over again, reaching with waves of want, rising up with each tiny hope, only to fall repeatedly under his command.
All because of this man. Because this man thought he could see below, when up and down did not exist, only in and around. Below was an illusion when there were only TWO. Love was IT.