The Spectre of Academic Research
A spectre is haunting the streets of Melbourne.
Seeking his way on the edges of the chessboard,
He travels across opposing dimensions,
Then stops to ponder, in silence.
Fearful, forceful, confused
He crosses people without engagement.
A pawn lost on the margins
Of a disenchanting game.
Lost. Far from home,
But at last on his own.
Unsettled by the promises of courage,
Slowly drowning in delusions.
Lost. In loneliness.
If the ghost reopens his eyes
Will he find shelter
In the dreams of the mind?
Meanwhile
The everyday is emptying out
Of driving passions.
Meanwhile he is not.
Slave not to indolence
But to ambition,
Slave to the wrong plot,
To a well contrived plan
He dared to shake once,
He is still a prey of.
A seeker
In the academic cage,
Will he stand back
From his feelings again?
Or give up the quest
To remain sane?
Will the thin red bicycle
Take him past the crossroad
Of being true and
Playing the game?
Living in a void,
Distant from past and
Absent from present,
The stubborn fighter
Gives himself a chance
To crush old presumptions
Into the ice-cold walls
Of the new world
Down-under.
But knowledge
Is like a whirlpool
Swallowing his tired body
In exchange for the power of ideas.
Now it is time to rest.
Back to his cave
The spectre lies down
Trapped in-between
The urge of starting all over again
And the unbearable prospects of nothingness.
R U F O