A letter

I wake with all the morning about me in cool sunlight’s praise of the unworthy. The glow itself is patronized by the breeze blowing through my window, carrying news in torrents. I cannot but leave this place in time to beat the rain, yet it is this rain which I conjured for myself as inspiration only last night.
Once outside I feel the pressure of its droplets, but no feeling exists. I can see the water fall in great amounts, yet there is no description that can bring it to life in my eyes. In fact, I do not know whether this rain has come at the right time, or the exact wrong. Whether it be the clichéd harbinger of my doom or the inspiratory work of some higher power, I must doubt that it is anything but the word of my lord: the word of my own self.
As I walk it draws me into the depths of contemplation, with nothing but the cool air streaking across my face as it splashes warming draughts of water and what should be sleet towards me. There is ringing in my ears and nothing. The gentle crowing of a thunderous clamor that can do nothing but hide all else from my mind; for, it is not in the cool, dark depths of my own thoughts where I can find solace, but in the heat of the most extraordinary circumstance, where the body cannot fully understand what is occurring around it and the mind is able to draw on the confusion of sound to create its own reality.
And in this place there is nothing but me. Nothing but what I own and what I am. A place where I control, where everything is in the firm, bounded region of my own mind. It is this very region that I have created and am the creator; for it is here that I abound like the very dirt in my own world’s reality: like the very water that sustains all parts of that world’s life.
Quiet though, because I have a thought. Perhaps this is a contradiction. I am all and everything, and more—but only because I am the owner. But as the owner of this reality, of myself, of my everything and nothing and all I do and all I in saying believe to be true I must be named owner. And as owner of this land I limit myself to being owned and I am therefore nothing but a limited vassal with no hope of freedom because I am my own master: not that I do as I will, but that I will all that I must do without any choice in the matter. It is the little beings that live on my land who are the controllers, as I own myself, and in owning am enslaved by the only thing I pronounce to be free: that is, my own mind.
So in doing, I fool myself to dis-create the freedom of mind that only those truly free to appoint themselves the sole owner of thought can actually lose. Still, this is justice in my world.
Perhaps if the grand judge of my own skies were to step into my shoes he would feel somewhat trapped. Then again, maybe it is me stepping into his.