sometimes i read things i have written, and wonder if i have lost the ability to write. or if i will ever feel that same urgency for life and pick out moments to remember with the same dexterity. if i will ever learn to write at times other than when i am grieving or hollow or broken, and if i cannot, what that says about me. i worry about losing the only thing that has defined me in all my years.

A year or so ago, i wrote ;

"Every day I carry myself with a vigour just short of a thousand urgent whispers, it seems as if reality has become cloudless and complete, and I cry and my heart breaks only because of beautiful things. It is at once easier and at the same time harder to breathe - when your judgement isn't clouded by your desire for a person, that elusive him, there is so much more to take in. My lungs fill with content. But I know something is missing.

I crave love the way poets hunger for a desperate, savage beauty in their words - a rawness characterized by exposed flesh, something ugly & yet strangely intoxicating. To bear a fire for things inextricably linked to simplicity and the most infinite sort of beauty that love so wholly encompasses, is to understand my need."

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