Words often swirl, broken, unable to form a pure thought, or any thought organized enough to escape my mind. I think, and the sentences from a hundred novels all read themselves, quietly, murmuring to write something, to start a flow that won't be stemmed, an endless train of thoughts gaining coherence like speed down the treacherous crooks of my arms and fingers, typing with fervent and obsessive clicks to relieve in some way the incessant craving to be. In the quiet, only me.
There begins an itching in my spirit, at times like these, dry, cracking earth-like itching which I am certain is the drying out of my essence, the death of the light, or life, that I have sheltered for so long from distant, violent storms never arriving to bathe me, to let me know there is vibrance only near the edge of fear. I have carefully sheltered my coarse bag of seeds till there is nearly naught but dust, and I yearn for all the waters I've ever passed, so many. So many.
Perhaps there is a chance for me to slip strings I've worn vicariously, becoming the master of my own puppet's life before whatever end is coming. I feel drugged, drunk, entangled in lethargic habits and comforts; safety, once a goal, has become a millstone dragging me, maybe even back to a mill to be ground and scattered. Where I will become the bland and barren soil of my fathers from which I grew, nothing new. I despair in this desert trap I have sprung, it cannot be undone; but there are only sacrifices left, what to gnaw away from myself. Do I have the strength, the teeth to tear away the comfort, to bring the life's blood, proving, yet, there is life left?
And isn't that a new comfort worth seeking? To feel alive again is nearly worth death. To jump from a plane and know you cannot go back up, to stress muscles too tired to hold, yet holding anyway out of raw fear, to plunge in waters so wild as to catch your breath. We were once creatures of survival as some of us still are, and I want to be again. I want life to bear my bite marks, to know it has struggled to break me and lost. I want to know when I rest, I have cheated death for another day. To feel the sleep that comes after hours of pumped adrenaline, hot and acrid in the mouth, cooled by waters of contentment. I want to see colors I saw as a child, before I knew them, how they seemed to show even through closed lids. I want to live in more than two dimensions again, to be able to move in unlimited directions, and remain still within my soul. Safe.
For safety and comfort, I now know, are not a lifestyle, or a goal to seek. They are the places in which you rest when you are too tired to struggle any longer, when you need to sleep a few hours before the next exciting grapple, perhaps with an angel this day. And life, the noun, is to be shunned for its verb, to live, an action not a thing. This doesn't take muscle or money or brain, but grit - the determination that if life tries to sit down in front of you, you're going to kick it till it moves again, tuck tailed and yelping all the while, as you chase it with a stick! I want to know when I leave here I will have worn out my welcome and used up all my potential. I want my sons to see what I've done and feel an excitement and a challenge to do as well, or even better. I want people who have known me to feel the earth pause with my passing, to say that nothing will be the same without me. I want the grave to tremble with the fear of holding so formidable and vibrant a man as I have been.
These are my goals, as I aspire to live.