I stroke my fin so vigorously
in a muddy puddle
shouting I’m dying.
How refreshing is a cup of water
poured down at that moment!
How does it seem as everything!
And how much more vigorously
should I stroke to get it again?
How sweet temptation is it to be a sinner?
How much catharsis is it to be forgiven after a long severe cry in your dirtiness?
I mean, somewhat like a solution of congestion.
How big is our love of freedom not to be satisfied with once?
Is that why we keep returning to that shabby dirty place to taste the sweetness of freedom over and over again?
You should have dug into the mud than thank for the cup of water.
You shouldn’t have answered to the promise of freedom with “Amen, amen my lord.”
For the only freedom you can understand is some letters on a sign, that you could never read anywhere once you really get there.
Then how vain is it to live your whole life in tears of emotion, shouting “My god, how beautiful is this guidebook, that fence and those cars on which freedom is written! “?
First you got to run! Break it! Get on it!
Until you can’t see the damn name of freedom anymore, until it don’t look beautiful anymore,
until you can’t remember about it anymore.