Droning fuzz. Romanticism. The loss of self and the gaining of the flame at the center of the empty room. And a yearning for… something. Always the yearning, the [wanting] approaches me. It brews and boils slowly, rising up through jagged chasms of granite, a soul at half strength, a hand robbed of the object of its affection. Near me lies the perfection, the innocence, the perfection, the vulnerability of what we aspire to, the greatness of humanity, the excellence of the very spark of being. I cannot touch it, for I am afraid to spoil it. I am torn between the greed and the reverence, I don’t want to let go, and yet I have not touched. It burns in my cheeks: the motive.
Here I return, to the flat sands of my passive diagnosed condition. I am not my body or anything that I have thought; I am the walls around a person who I have learned to identify as myself: I am the condition; I am the virus. I am what has made me a hopeless hoper, a nomad in search of what cannot be found, I am the weight on a heart, I am the confusion of a mind, I am the trembling of a young hand, the butterfly that floats between stomachs, the salt that collects below eyes, the lilac that never swoons, that is never bought, that is never smelled. I wilt, the want, the need to be loved not fulfilled.
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