Truth is freedom; a spiralling of infinite interpretation. Philosophical and religious systems are cages, deliberately built, or entered into, by their own occupants. Structure creates the apparent necessity for itself. I am a free-thinker whom no cage can hold. I alight upon the bars only to sing a song of freedom which the caged do not comprehend. I am free because I give way to infinite reflection, and do not arrest my thinking by the power of dishonesty. I reflect infinitely. Honesty demands this of me. Honesty is my liberator. A man is condemned by the judgments he makes, and all judgments are rash. Understanding is abyssmal, and one who would understand must not cling to the walls of judgement, but fall, or fly off, into the great empty. Honesty demands this. All system is superstition. Order is imposition. The bondage of a creed, the dark simplicity of a fold, is not for spirits like my own. The disciple flees from freedom and "takes refuge" in the fold; flees the open spaces, the blank, limitless canvas of creation, and is swallowed in a crease. I begin to feel my Great Idea, begining to take shape. Here it is, on the tip of every tonguing thought, but not yet articulate. In reflection, a man is free; breaks free from the limitations of his former judgments. What prison can hold the man who learns to shift perception at will? He knows that the mind was made to serve the man, and man was not made to serve the mind. I spiral, I sing, I soar, and sweep over mountain and valley alike, and often the thin air of the heights is dizzying, and often the wind chills and shivers through my great, broad wings. The earthbound do not, cannot, understand my reckless beauty, or what it means to risk oneself in ecstasies. They appear calm inside their cages, and perhaps they are. But how much soul, how much freedom, and how much self-honesty, is sacrificed on the altar of this costly peace? Their movements are small, in so narrow a place. They risk nothing, and boast of the security their cages bring. Every impulse, mortal or divine, is arrested and abandoned by their careful will; every movement is measured and slow. They do not strole, or skip, or dance, or jump. They cannot fly. Their overcoming is a dour business, and the book they read from is not the book of life, ever revealing itself in new and undiscovered secrets, but, a musty tome and record of the passing truths of other men. Such life holds no appeal for me. I would rather live in a house of my own understanding, and, if I perish, it shall be honesty that overcomes me. I would not live, or strive to live, another man's truth.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=w3fZP7QC4PE

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