One day it will round up...

I've always been told that I should look before I leap. And since I am accustomed to listen, I look. But I've learnt not to stare too long. Because with each passing moment, the void of uncertainty becomes bigger and scarier, while my attempts to predict each and every possible outcome, to evaluate every possible mistake, to prevent each possible failure tangle so fiercely that the knots are all I can see. So instead I try to look for the opportunity to leap, and leap faster than my fear can grab me. Leap before I talk myself out of it, before I convince myself to set up a temporary camp that turns into a permanent delay on my journey into my own heart.

Heartbeat racing, body shaking...

Addicted to the rush...

And now I know that silence is not distance - it is despair and distress and failure and weakness and dissociation and repeated attempts to venture into that world we were promised and made and protected. I'm all these words, all these strangers, this dust of words, with no ground for their settling, no sky for their dispersing, coming together to say, fleeing one another to say, that I am they, all of them, those that merge, those that part, those that never meet. And I'm always seeking something, it's tiring in the end, and it's only the beginning.

He will write in words of fire. He will write them on his skin. He will write about desire. Write beginnings, write of sin. He himself is the book he loves the best, his skin only holds the truth, he will be a palimpsest lines of age rewriting youth. He will not burn upon the pyre or be buried on the shelf. This is his letter to desire: and he'll never read himself. He will trace each word and comma as the final dusk descends, this is his tale of dreams and drama, let us find out how it ends.