Here's an anecdotal prose about when I was on a breakfast cruise in Sydney a few years ago.

I creep ever closer to the majestic bow of the yacht. My feet reach the very beginning of the massive boat, my legs gently resting against the railing that follows the edge. The wind whips through my hair, sending every strand afloat, flying in the breeze. My arms, which so recently lay on each side of my body, slowly reach out to my sides, spanning full length, fingertip to fingertip. Freedom. My body fights the air blowing into me, standing tall, straight. My eyes sparkle with the light of the rising morning sun, the light shining upon my figure, creating a silhouette. The smell of Sydney Harbor fills my nose, the sound of rushing water creating waves on either side of the yacht filling my ears. The wind continues to force my hair to fly back, the air forcing wrinkles into my baggy shirt, clinging to my front, flowing in the back. This is what it means to be free. I feel as if I’m flying, no worries on my mind, just myself upon this yacht and the wind being forced upon me. I gaze into the clear blue, fish swimming past, jellyfish visible within the harbor. I look up towards the Opera House, oh what a dazzling architectural beauty, silhouetted beside the Sydney cityscape. I close my lids, my lashes softly kissing my porcelain cheeks, my mind focusing on the freedom, focusing on the blissful Nirvana.