Uncertainty

There's a sinking sensation here, in the center of the universe. An almost imperceptible feeling of ineptitude. There is a wrongness in this place. I get the sense that I've taken a wrong turn, but there haven't been any turns for miles. So I bite my tongue and think of something else. Something brighter, but bright things seem ever in the past, tangled up with people and places I've long since left behind. It is almost as if the best of things are done and gone, and only the slow trod of time remains. I'm not unhappy here, not exactly. Not unhappy, but unusual.

Things have gone beyond my control. Far past my comprehension, in ways I can't begin to grasp. I lost my edge somewhere, that indomitable part of me that demanded solitude for the sake of my sanity. Too many people, too close, and not a single one of them afraid of what I am. Perhaps they can't see it. The domesticity seems to have leeched into my bones, and I spend my nights thinking of stories I can't find the words to tell, escapes that I have no way to put into motion.

And yet, for all of it I'm not unhappy.

There is a mildness to me, now. A sort of numbness. I have always been a creature of routines, but I don't crave this one the way I have before. It isn't that I don't care, that I don't feel. I just don't care the way I should. I don't feel as strongly as I have. Little hope for salvation. Perhaps this is salvation. From that old, wild spirit. That raving lunacy. The madness brought on by drink and food, by the words of bards and the tales of heroes. The unquenchable thirst for ever more adventure, roving far from home and finding that there's newness, even in the oldest places. I miss the sky. I miss the taste of new flesh. There are parts of me, deep and dangerous things, that yearn for it again. That roil and writhe in rebellion against this new, petrified self.

I find my fists clenched. Eyes wandering wildly. Heart racing. I want to run and fuck and feast. I want to create. To destroy. To rend the myriad worlds I've built and then build them anew. I want to savor every sultry inch of the earth, to take her in wild flights of need, to succor and sate myself upon her. I want to be alone of it all. The wanderer, spinning his tales over a drink and then vanishing. A spectre and a story.

I'm not unhappy here. But then, I have never wanted for happiness. There are better things in life.

Fleetingly Yours,
-S.R.