I think you will have a hard time in the next couple of years. I suspect the walls will crumble and fall around you. The concrete domestic bleeds with the tempting dreamworld. You will realise as I did. Poseidon chooses when the waters are calm.
All roads lead back to me. I am the spark in the epoch and the spirit of the sea. The father of time conspires with the warden of the Elysian fields. I take the world to task through untrammelled transformation. There is no escaping my return.
He meets again with the exalted one at the dawning of a new age, but what will that age be for you? You can’t be travelling at half sail, or overexposed in a life-jacket. The answer arrives all too soon, but it feels late. Of course.
It was always there. An implacable reality. In profile I was there, in your dreams I emerged. More than a man. Perhaps that is the problem. I was never satisfied with life. An approximate century. A competent mortal. What’s the point of all of that?
No, it is unseemly. Degrading even. Demands a certain rejection of the premise, almost. What does time announce in exaltation? Surely the theme must be grand. Iterate and try not to get hurt, consensus via megaphone, that’s not much of a life for me.
I am superior. Superior to the imposition of mortality, standing high above the expectation. That it implies I should tend towards a certain inexorable fate. I simply refuse to accept it. I will not go out without a fight. My morning routine repeats memento mori.
Where does that leave you? Hellenistic, as I rebuild the walls, but these are made to last, but not before you fall apart. Someone has to pick up the pieces, but I’ve been solving the puzzle for a very long time, when you think I am just getting started.