The fog still sittin' heavy all along the road, just like it stay spread all across life itself. A human still out here miserable till proven otherwise, and happiness? That's still just a wish most folks dream about, while reality barely holdin' onto its ropes. That's what Márquez saw when he looked out the window at that deep, scary slope — where feelings mix with darkness, crashin' into the last few words, where water done passed under every bridge, before it choose, all on its own, to freeze up solid.
A lil' kid runnin' full speed on the sand of a Mediterranean beach, butt naked, laugh echoing so loud you hear it from far away — that right there? That's happiness. Everything else just a mirage, warnin' of ruin. It's really that simple, that easy, that raw. Ain't nobody doin' that but somebody crazy for meaning before they ever crazy for content.
Step by step toward the goal. And no matter how much pain fly off with every move, it ain't nothin' more than the fair price for what our work gon' turn into at the end. The more fire, the more clarity. The more truth, the more loyalty. That's what Márquez believe in as he keep stackin' years of experience — lessons every warrior carry along with the shrapnel they couldn't shake.
Márquez hop off, pitch black all around him. He take a few steps, then light up a cigarette. The tip glowin' red, remindin' anybody who see it that happiness without pain ain't got no hope, and the pleasure a smoker feel only come from watchin' that ember — that spark that wake up memory and certainty.
When a man — Márquez — chase what he love, what movin' inside him, what surround him, and he pay his dues just to feel it, that thing start feelin' sacred. 'Cause this whole existence really just a private relationship between what a person can lean on and what the world can push back. Márquez understood that early, seems like, before most folks ever caught on.
In a shallow world like Pirate Land (Die Piraten), it's easy for a thinkin' pirate to remix his ideas however he want. Ain't no real intellectual competition — just ignorance, fake behavior, and straight-up foolishness paintin' the culture. Folks who carry logic got a hard time livin' on land like that. So hope walk right next to pain when they try to do their duty — searchin' for that far-off happiness.
You gon' fall, lil' pirate. One of them glass shards scattered on Pirate Beach gon' stab you. The edges gon' cut you up, and you gon' cry hard tryin' to make sense of what just happened. You sit off to the side once you pull the pain out — if you lucky. Then you decide to look for a homeland where the sand ain't hidin' tiny glass pieces under the carpet of your joy, only showin' up to steal your innocent laughter.
Walkin' just to cross that bridge ain't easy, and it sure ain't common. You gotta be brave enough to cut off one of your legs. The law of crossin' say you gotta jump across on one leg only. You ain't allowed to keep the other one useless — nah, you gotta cut it off completely, submit to the will of the bridge guards, if peace of mind what you really want.
So… will Professor Márquez give up one of his legs?
Ain't impossible. He know the consequences. He also know how bad it get if he don't step up — if he don't try, don't dare, don't rise to the level of the humanity and wild spirit he carry inside. The game like a cigarette: burnin' your chest but still makin' you smile — even if it's just for a moment.
C'mon, Márquez. Be you — just once, maybe the first and last time in this life.