Color me shocked I'm drunk again. This whole week started amazing, I woke up early to go to the gym, I felt energized and alive and motivated. Still that fire simmers just below my desire, like the wavering embers of a late night smoke weaving in and out of belief. Whose game am I taunting this time? This beauty, this delirium, this desire...I want to run out into the street and swoon with the silk of moonlight on my gooseflesh, I want to bury my arms and my shivering under mountains of wool. Everything suffocates me with outstanding magnitude. It pierces my very soul, stirs my essence to shout and shudder and whisper my submission without condition. My gift is so slight, so muted, so variant on the desperation of each night's mood. Tonight was particularly demanding. I stacked my resolve alongside my rigid pose, held my breath and my tongue and endured the torture I imagined as my loneliness rediscovered crept upon my shaky new found stability. But I've been so happy...I wanted to shout to no god in particular. Something must be done, some heart must be woken, some lust must be sated, some lips must be met in wanting. There is so much I have to give in a thousand different mediums that it explodes within me without a means to direct it. This heat grew within me until the smoldering wouldn't be doused with wine or beer after beer after beer. The more I sated it the more it illicited a fixation without naming. I hear a voice cry out in song or see a color mixed in creative defiance or I see a movement placed in intentional grace on display and I am speechless with the agony of talent. It's like a condition, a disease, an affliction of the desperate. Unable to sit still, unable to witness the world without heartache, without a wounding of the fragility of our artful souls. Are we pretentious or merely leaders of the distracted towards the glorious instances of this life ordinarily unworshipped by the busy? I almost have nothing left to lose. Nothing left to tarnish. My soul is pristine in its profanity. I've crossed so many lines that in my exposure to all embarrassment I am made free. Free to mistake and misstep and misjudge the path I should have been on for years and have wasted. I've erased expectation and now I'm simply and purely me. Without watchful eyes or judgement I soldier on. I had begun to question my drive, my reason for being, and now I just don't care. I am in a wonderful program, I have a brilliant future, and I am applying for a loan to be able to stand on my feet without the day to day worry of juggling class and work and life. Do I sound grown up yet? Maybe. But I'm far from it. I will count my money and sell my shit and work night and day when I should be studying and come Halloween weekend, my birthday, I WILLL have a moogfest pass and I WILL do what I want and live my dream. Alone or not, I have a goal. Fuck the world, fuck this path, fuck impressing you or anyone else, I will survive, I will prevail, my life will win, I will be happy, and whether these words and my life is any different no one will ever guess. It all seems so silly, so childish, so mundane. I sound like the average American, unhappy with this life and wondering what else could be. Countdown to November 11, 2011. It will be 11 11 11. Never forget that date, no matter what. I'll play along till then, and then I'll play some more. If you're not happy then no one is. We'll see come the end. For now soldier on, smile on, play on. The world is a stage, and the audience can't wait till you fuck up your lines.