Days like these--- when I hide away in the library as though these cubicles had the power to perpetually force time and space into nonexistence, as though these walls and windows and words could forget the obligations and responsibilities I tallied my life away for--- I fear that in this silence, I will forget my voice.
I plug into the smurf and become nothing more than she who seeks sound for pleasure. For sound to resurrect the lover in me, the learner in me. A hedonist at core who disregards repercussions of the coming distractions.
I coup myself in this frame of graffitied benevolence and I can hardly control my urge to scream. To speak. To think. To sing glory.
I wish I could make music. I wish I had heart enough to pursue some sort of...anything. Sigh.
What I learn makes me unlearn years of practiced behavior and I'm torn between new birth and old misery. This is what I wanted, no? An education with application?
Then why does it hurt so damn much?
Because growing is painful, I keep telling myself. The inches I grow break the surface of skin; having embedded themselves so deeply in my bones and joints, they pull in every which way. The transformation of man to lycanthrope could not have been less painful.
I'm trying to understand, my friend. I'm trying to understand relationships and people and the big why. I'm trying to understand how love is simply not enough.