I thought about how to free my brain from its life time sentence in my skull. Should I disclose to someone else this secret that was given to me by the future me, and demand help? Or would I have a disappointment as happened with the interpretation of my dream? There was only one way to learn: Try.
I penned a poem and read it to everyone in the literature class. If anyone is interested, we could set out to this adventure together:
In a spherical bone,
Darkness in me and alone.
Oh human, deliver me,
Depressed I am in you head, believe me.
A brain in the grasp of every man,
Free brain is the quality of a real man.
As I was reading my poem, there were giggles in the class. Some even mocked me. Nevertheless, everybody was silent at the last two lines. When I was finished, everybody was applauding, but my eyes were looking for someone whose eyes were shining with my secret message. Few stared at me for a while. I asked myself "is it what I am looking for?"...
No one came to me during the break; not about the poem, at least. I added a negative "is it" to me previous positive "is it". Maybe I had thrown my message bottle into the wrong ocean. One way or another, I felt compelled to venture this quest, because my poem was reflecting the moaning of my own brain, before anyone else's.
After school, I rushed to the bookseller. I showed my poem. He smiled. He asked "What did the futuroscope show you?" I thought he already knew, but apparently what you see stayed with you only. I told him how I ascended with a shuttle through a book, how I met my future self in a strange space and the secret whispered to me in the end:
"Because those who imprison their brains to their skulls imprison the knowledge to books, whereas the book of universe is legible to the entire body."
He explained how in the ancient times of limited knowledge, everything was taught to people, and so how a holistic view was present of human and the universe, but that with the tremendous increase of information, rather analytical and partial perspectives have dominated. He indicated the equivalence of the religious secludes who deny the worldly life and the scientists who reject religion totally about their deficient approach to existence. He shared that my poem reminded him of the ancient philosophers, and that the definition of perfect human in the old times fostered the development of all faculties of a person, and a human was seen as a mirror image of the universe. All these clarified a complication of mine:
"Those who imprison the knowledge to books, who imprison their brains to their skulls, who reduce the universe to only what they observe and control, etc. etc. etc. are all descendants of the same mentality. Since they cannot deliver their brains from their skulls, it rots there and poisons them."
Disturbed by my words of adolescent rebellion, the bookseller wanted to restrain me:
"Slow down, slow down. Correct starting point doesn't necessarily mean correct route. Yes, they are all descendants of the same mentality, but you'd better name this fact as captivity rather than poisoning. After all, the fruits of this approach of theirs represents certain aspects of the truth."
"Good but, they impose to the new generations their approaches as the only possible explanation?"
"Then, you are going to answer God's call to contemplation, and set out to infinitely many unbounded journeys."
"People can't stand such journeys..."
"Contemplation is a crown placed on your head by God. No one can take it away from you unless you take it off yourself."
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