you who billows my sails
and you my ballast:
this ship at times huge
my crew need be many
for i wish to travel to the edges of the earth.
too eager to sail i neglect
the contours of my vessel
a ship torn apart in the maelstrom
but salvageable
and strong
tethered in to the dock
i, weary on the shore
pushing pebbles into the sand
i feel the strength of the wind
as it changes i know (or feel)
this worn-out junk will taste
salt water on her flanks
what i lack in skill perhaps
i can make up for in experience.
but i am pushing too far out again.
the material world requires my presence
more than the sea.
...
i have already forgotten
what i have begun to write
& the fatigue of my illness
sets in again
my mind at once too grand and too small.
i need you to reflect the contours
of our reality
you, the sane
who remember
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I am not present in my body merely as a pilot in present in a ship; I am most tightly bound to it, and as it were mixed up in it, so that I and it form a unit. Otherwise, when the body is hurt, I, who am simply a conscious being, would not feel pain on that account, but would perceive the injury by a pure act of understanding...
Descartes disagrees with you. So you're doing good.
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