White Hot

I know nothing with any certainty but the sight of the stars makes me dream... They are lighthouses, calling me back to safety when I am lost. When waters roughen and waves wash threats of sinking, they are my anchor. Homesick and breathless from the ache of consciousness, they mother me gently and nurse my bruised mind. 

Tell me, does it not pain you with a violent thudding, through each vein and blood vessel, to explore every inch of life this world has to offer? To breathe air from mountain tops and wade barefoot through coral speckled waters. To see canyons and valleys and jungle-infested remains of a life that our ancestors left behind. To eat native foods and pray with Buddhists and discover a stillness of life that knows no motorway or city pulse. 

To sleep under the stars, in woods and on seafronts, those same lighthouses, guiding us from shore to shore. To follow smooth roads for miles across barren highways and drink languages foreign to our tongues. 

I can't keep my thoughts still, instead they stir inside me like some malicious animal, beating insatiably on it's skeleton cage. It's the watermelon seed that you dreaded swallowing in childhood- growing deep from the pits of my belly up through my windpipe. 

And all the while I can feel it rattle and reverberate... bleeding into the words I speak and the movements of my hands, like a disease. It is unstoppable. Untameable. Incurable. And on black nights, when the moon is ripe and fertile, adrenaline soars through my bloodstream, burning me inside as though I had the whole sun in my stomach. 


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