(Kill/Free) the Body, Free the Mind

I'm a materialist.

A vicious imperialist of my realm:

a body is not a prison,

but a vessel. At its helm,

beknownst or not, you plot

a quest

which will test

your worthiness,

and blessed

are we upon tempestuous

seas,

we whose challenges

refuse to be ignored.

Blessed is the fighter,

the artist and the beggar.

Blessed is he who has endured.

We long for substance

and sensation,

for places unexplored.

We long for meaning

and emancipation.

We long never to be bored.

So, I bid you,

play the game,

if indeed that's what this is,

but pay attention,

for, ere the end,

I've a hunch there'll be a quiz.

The business of the physical

holds meaning, I believe,

albeit some may never see it

until they open the door to leave.

💀

I'm an idealist.

Not an optimist, but a realist

who thinks ideas are the realest

things.

Mind preceded matter,

flight preceded wings,

and the sweetest songs of life

preceded every bird who sings.

If a thought is in the air

and we, the masses, breathe it in,

it can all at once be brought to bear

upon what's solid.

Though it may take a long, long while

by any corporeal metric,

we can be made to reconcile

with the magic, the concentric.

Beings, we are,

concepts, we were,

woven from a common spool of thread.

If life should fail to show you meaning,

death will teach you in its stead.

But where wounds to the body

cease to ache once the humbled flesh is dead,

a sickness of the spirit

is not so easily put to bed.