To be tired; tied to oblivion. To be outfoxed by mediocrity. Seduced by law. To be the last sure thing you knew, and to let that go, trading it in for tighter straps that only sometimes worked.
To be so full of something, call it conviction, that you knew language would be yours. To be so full of something to say, and to not say it, to not know what it is or what it needs, to be blocked from the heart up.
To want, more than anything, to say something real, Realer than real. To say it all and say it once and say it.
To say how hard it is, all of it. Every ounce of it.
To say how slow it is, how long, how the small things that breath is us become shallower.
To say how much like a dream, like a play. How real we believe our acting to be, how vague our lines, how indecipherable our motivation. How quickly we can turn farce into fantasy, parody into paradise, and then back again. And how we are always poised for the turn, whether we admit it or not.
To say that I once was…something. Alive, bold, barren of tedium, a biter of flesh, a caller of ancient names. To say that I gave it up for a more restful night, for the paradigm sold to me in a package of virtues. To say I was eclipsed by what I was.
To say I don’t need you, stander on this stage. You in your purple garments, you with one hand to a powdered lady singing falsetto, and one eye to me with my broom and bodice. I don’t need to be so consumed in the play as to betroth myself to vapors.