[12 JUL 2010]  I wait in a small room, a decaying shack, for any momentary sliver of light, to fill me, to move me to some sort of action. And I wait for touch, for something real — anything carrying shards of divinity. Does love exist? I sit thirsty and dry upon the banks of a giant river, a flood of unbridled love, I sit empty, waiting.

While my peers were in college, preparing careers, starting careers, solidifying careers, making babies — so many years! — I was a devotee of the magic of purging. I built many edifices of sadness and of beauty; I built them from those ashes of emotive fumes. And now? — I am a tightrope walker, parading the razor’s edge between remembering and forgetting, between the madness of boredom and the wide eyes of wakefulness.

Yes, I have many little speeches now. Like any good philosopher (but not the mystic) I am a raging ideologue, drunken on the past, spilling these little speeches on the shoes of everyone. Where is my diatribe of silence?

But alas, these thoughts — however putrid or recycled — are the only mirrors I have. This neurotic running is my birthright and to hold the whole of me would surely be enough. Enough.