I am my own Atlas
I finally made it back from the great abyss. I woke up from a seven-yearfluke, and it was yesterday. Shaking off the dust from the precipice . . . itcomes as no shock that nothing has changed.
Have I been running this long? Have the tears really spilled so violentlyfrom my eyes, which are sick with weeping?
I could have lived my life around our demise. For a while, I heard that youmight have tried to do the same. But, even beyond living anesthetized, I reallyneeded little help removing myself from the wreckage. And now, after all thistime, the only thing of consequence I see is everything. Of coldness, I can beaccused . . . of deceit, never . . . of transparency, always.
I am my own Atlas. The Aristotelian unmoved mover. The world that I liftedfrom my shoulders is my world, not the world in sum. The world in sum is toopreoccupied with their own shoulders to consider mine. The sun that spinsinside my little universe will continue to spin. And, within my world, I willcontinue to have many different adventures. I will be a sage in some countries,an ingénue in others. Another heart may beat with mine, but mine is mine alone.Singularity never daunted me