“We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.”
(The Tempest, Act 4, Scene 1, 156-158)
Because you are of two minds, both capricious and deadly.
Because we know neither why you were confined, nor how you come to value your freedom once granted.
Because you are but a figment of our dreaming.
Because you are but the stuff of this world.
Because you walk without stepping foot; speak without moving air.
Because you are of two minds, both cautious and careless.
Because you recognize your enemies.
Because you recognize your fear.
Because you carefully accost your charges; you charge your subjects with sleep.
Because all things are either existent or not.
Because all things are neither existent nor not.
Because you are an actor upon a stage.
Because you are but a stage upon which an audience becomes lost.
Because you cast out Caliban.
Because Caliban casts you out.
Because all the winds seem to speak your name.
Because your name speaks with the force of a gale.
Because you are in love with the world.
Because you find love in others, but do not understand love.
Because you pretend to understand pain.
Because you are nothing but pain.
Because you walk into pain as a mist brushed aside.
Because your dress is bathed in warm light.
Because you are immersed but never baptized in salt-water.
Because you count hours as a pauper counts pennies.
If you were whole you would be invisible.
If you were unconflicted, you would disappear.
If you understood freedom, you would not appear.
If you are illusion you are of nothingness.
If you are of dream, you would be of shape.
If you knew yourself you would be cautious.
When you swim you become the sea.
When you fly you become the air.
When you burrow you become the earth.
When you speak you cease to see.
When you see you cease to speak.