You attempt to define me,
as the sands attempt to define the sea.
Do the sands have no purpose without the sea?
You yearn to understand me
but it is for you that you do this,
not for me.
You label me for your use and
stash me on a high, dusty shelf,
convenient.
You analyze me, always, but
no better do you understand yourself in the end
and I wonder why, then, you do it.
For I cannot sit on your shelf.
The sea will go where it will
without ever asking the sands.
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