The world around me is changing so rapidly,
as though the ground beneath my feet is cracking and shifting.
Chasms are opening, bidding me welcome,
horizons are changing, hope blooming from the unknown.
So many things are different, which casts in ever so stark contrast the things that remain.
I am the same as ever in a messy myriad of ways, and it seems I always will be the same.
I’m not so scared anymore.
Magic sparks out the ends of these fingers, my tongue leaves trails. I know what I’m capable of.
I just need purpose; I just need inspiration. Inspiration has been absent for so long I’ve forgotten what I feels like.
The last lost loves have been nothing more than red herrings, fleeting distractions. Weak. Shallow.
I remember, what more felt like, like a hazy fantasy. I know what it’s possible to feel. And I want to fucking feel it. Like a fucking calamity, a natural disaster, impending doom, I want to drown in it again. I need that fucking intensity. I lose myself in passivity, my own or someone else’s. I need fucking fire.