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I gotta

I gotta write. I gotta come here. I gotta say it. Gotta say somethin'. Make it real. Make it mine. Make use of this energy. Make use of this life. Do something before it's too late to do anything or be.

I press my cheek against the window looking out at the rain and I realize that maybe my melancholy sense of longing is all I'll ever be. Maybe that's why I flail and float and hide and whisper and never make things happen or step out off the edge and look for the parachute in my backpack or figure out how to love or live right.

Because what would happen if I could just name that thing the yearning ache thing in the chest just small and hollow enough to insert a probing fingertip into? What if I could put something in it and it would be sated and whole and at rest at long-god-damned-last? Then what would I do? Then where would I go? Then who and what and why and HOW dammit - how ... would I be? Anymore.

M

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