Soar Freely, Darling
Soar freely, dear spirit
“Legend of the free spirit, please, soar free,” the old bard implored, his voice like parchment against the evening’s silence. He sang of an ethereal creature, not bound by mortal chains, unburdened by the weight of tangible existence, a specter in the great dance of life and death.
This spirit, he sang, was a comet streaking across the darkened sky, leaving a trail of stardust in its wake. It was the wind, unchained and wild, kissing the mountains, whispering secrets to the rivers, playing with the leaves, and waltzing with the waves. It was the fire, undomesticated and insatiable, dancing in an eternal ballet of destruction and creation, taking as much as it gives.
He sang of its flight, a melody that flowed like water, fluid and transcendent, painting pictures in the air as the last rays of sun surrendered to the moon’s dominion. “Soar free, spirit,” he chanted, his voice an echo in the twilight, “over the towering mountains, across the limitless seas, through the silent valleys, under the shroud of the nebula, beyond the veil of reality. Exist where no being has ventured, perceive what no eyes have witnessed, and dream what no mind has dared to conceive.”
The bard’s voice was a lullaby to the slumbering hamlet, each note a thread weaving a fantastical tapestry of tales untold. He sang of the spirit’s adventures, a symphony of celestial escapades composed in the language of freedom. The spirit danced with the northern lights, wove sonnets with the constellations, played hide and seek in the rings of Saturn, surfed on the comets, and lulled the moon to sleep.
Yet, the spirit wasn’t a silent observer of the cosmos, but an active participant in its grand opera. It held the sun’s blaze at dawn, bathed in the light of distant supernovae, soothed the celestial beasts, and whispered lullabies to newborn stars. It was the invisible hand that etched radiance into the aurora, infused life into the galaxies, sowed dreams into the night, and planted hope in the morning dew.
The bard’s ballad grew solemn, his voice a gentle echo against the night’s profound silence. He sang of the spirit’s sorrow, of the solitude that accompanies freedom, of the melancholy that mars the beauty of the cosmos. For the spirit, he sang, understood the paradox of existence — that to truly live, one must understand the profound intimacy of solitude, the silence of the galaxies, the quiet symphony of the universe.
The legend of the free spirit, the bard concluded, was not a tale of unchecked freedom, of untethered exploration. It was a song of wisdom, a ballad of balance, a sonnet of the soul. It was the harmony of being, of existence, of the cosmos, and the universe’s gentle lullaby to the endless expanse of time and space.
“Soar free, spirit,” the bard whispered, his voice a shadow in the encroaching night. “Be the song, the dance, the laughter, the tears, the light, the darkness. Be the harmony and the discord, the creation and the destruction, the question and the answer. In your freedom, find your purpose. In your flight, find your roots. In your solitude, find your connection. Soar free, spirit, for in your freedom lies the universe’s truth, the cosmos’s heart, the essence of existence. Soar free, for you are the legend, the story untold, the song unsung, the dream unfulfilled. Soar free, for you are the spirit, the cosmos, the universe — the beautiful enigma of existence.”
