Great works of art, torn and banished and lost at sea

My head is ripped vertically, in line with the heavens, and I see those stars above me. Erase, erase, erase and be free of this race, of me through this expansive ecstacy. Race race race, pounding off, off, off into--

What?

I ran away from ignorance in an effort to become something else, become better, be free. I have left my home as a rat to become a lone pigeon, because that seemed better, because anything was better. But from this ghastly vantage point I can see the seagull, beyond that the noble albatross, and above her a plane. And though I may yearn for its sleek and polished frame, I cannot have that plane. It was better to be a rat in ignorance, shepherded along by collective will. Who am I to shepherd? I wanted wings, but for what? What is this opportunity? I don't have the strength for this. I can't give up the ease of life I used to have in favor of that nobility. Nobility. What a whimsical dream I had. I envy the self who had that dream. I have not the strength for noble pursuits. Perhaps I also lack the strength to hold a self.

Once upon a time not so long ago, I fell off a cliff and a great white gull swooped me up, refusing to let me scatter for naught the half-hearted carcass I inhabit. Misty-eyed for so long, he reminded me of my nobility. I saw, I envied, I healed, I nurtured that spark in his eyes with all I had. I returned to flying, though I knew that no amount of flying could lift me above my status. They were true gulls, who learned from him. I am just, as the saying goes, a rat with wings.

I return to that cliff now. I am not falling, but I near the edge. There is no gull to learn from, no gull to save me, no way to break the neural bonds in which I hold myself. It is these times when my hero is Rearden, metal and rigid and stable, bearing the brunt of everything to raise himself up. I need to show myself what I fight for. I cannot hold on to the things that I love. They are gone. I must find the strength to save myself, though I will never be a gull. I must do what that living gull did, but for those who are like me. It is perhaps too late for me, as I have drowned my moral code. But there are those who are worth saving. If I find the strength, I will come back and stand rigid, for that is all they need of me. I will inspire, and swoop through to save one other. I can only hope it is not too late.

Who am I, to compare myself to Rearden? I am too shifty-eyed. I have not the strength, and I forget my own self-loathing too readily. I lose motivation too easily.

I race. I have lost the physical ones too many times, but it is an addiction of mine to race my mind. I cannot help but to race through to an ending or a finish, but I can no longer see the euphoria across the line. Perpetual motion is at times unbearable.

I used to be ripped to the sky in triumph, with a victory and a daring risk overcome. Today I have been pulled unwillingly, guiltily. I do not deserve to feel this alive.

Yesterday, I declared: I have forgotten freedom.

Today it burns.

I have agreed.