writing

I want to sleep on the street at night, with the chill ground underneath me. I want to dance with my eyes closed in the center of the floor, feeling strangers’ bodies moving and the music pounding in my head until I’ve lost track of where I am, and who I am and the only thing left is the movement, driving fast and wild.
I want to stand in the storm, soaked by the rain and listen to the thunder rage around me. I want to scream at the moon until there’s no sound left in my throat and no energy left in my body. I want to hunt with animals, silent and fierce, tearing at raw flesh with my teeth and tasting death’s warm blood in my mouth. I want to race my car at a hundred miles an hour and crash it into a cement wall; shattering glass and twisting metal all around me, the sound screaming in my ears. I want to cut myself with a razor, watch myself bleed onto a cold stone floor until I slip away.
I need a sensation to remind me I’m alive, something extreme; something harsh, cold, searing, electric, piercing. Something wild to wake up my half-beating heart. I want to build my own house, to swing an axe, to feel sweat on my brow, to exert myself. I tell myself that I’m happy–look at all I have–but I’m deceiving myself. I want a grand passion.
You color my dreams–vivid thoughts, stories interweaving, that I can’t believe I think of myself. But I awake and they slip away, I snatch at them but the roll away from me as ink on a wax surface. It seems futile for me to write anything, because I have no new commentary on the human condition that is unique and original. But I’ve been lonely and hungry for something practically all of my life.