I cannot find the fire. You know that flame of inspiration, of passion of some sort of eternal clarity; yeah I am not sure it exists. Maybe everything surrounding us is too ordinary, too engrained in our human consciousness that we are rarely surprised anymore. Every once in a while and for a brief duration of time I gather a warmness that holds the prospects of magic, but it soon disappears into pure mundane bits, moments on my digital clock. I forget, let go and move on.
Except this act of moving on leaves me with an unrequited longing, as though something so essential yet so elusive is missing from my life.
I change, sometimes too often and too untethered for my own good. I seem to have become professionally accustomed to my ever widening distance from everything and everybody. So what is the outcome of the changing nature of a solitary being? Do I change my surroundings every time my compass mutates or am I so detached that I unfold and diverge all upon myself in my own space?
I am subdued by a softness possibly a weakness or a fragility so thin it wraps me like a primary skin, it is so imperfect, porous and permeable; it is almost transparent. But I feel naked without it, and nudity is never just skin deep.
Slowly and sheepishly I keep interrupting myself with doubts and thoughts of bravery, maybe I can be that courageous person too? Maybe a second skin never hurt anybody. I held that thought until I believed it and I began sewing over that ethereal fragility a much more coarse and rigid skin. I decided that I cannot go into a world so unprepared, so uncovered; I had to leave no trace of the weakling in me. And that is how I sense a world that is not as friendly as I hoped it would be. First contact with an unmoved, reflective and impermeable surface, and second contact dampens a softness and a naivety in me I work so hard to protect from tearing at the seams.
I remain in a conversation that is one sided and double edged. I converse with few words that run the risk of arriving breathless and meaningless by the time my exchange is done.
I hope and I dream of bigger and better words possibly even novels and worlds more welcoming of fire and magic. I want days that are extraordinary and fueled with imperfection and credibility so shameless and contradictory. I want to be wrong, I have to be wrong.

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