I can’t ever outrun this feeling that something is missing. The possibility gnaws at my psyche and has slowly torn it to bits. Each time it takes a bite, it is almost imperceptible, and now over the years I look to see that large chunks are missing. I feel incomplete, like I am incapable of really truly thinking of much else. It has to be real, because if it isn’t I’m just a bedlamite. But the flow of energy in my chest cranks into being when I’m reminded of the ancient, of the timeless, of the real. I need to find it.
[Written October 9th, 2016]