Who is this shimmering, transient quantity called you? Why is it important that you should be? Why do you need to be? And why is this need dulling with every day that passes in a mediocre, less than okay haze? When purpose is missing, and talent questionable, how long can you run? And why are you running? After so many, many days of giving in, why does it rankle so sharply still? The conviction of being something, something worth being, that shone like a torch inside for so many years; where along the way did it quench itself without ceremony? Why do words offer poor consolation, when they have been more than adequate shoulders for a lifetime thus far? And do you even want to know? Or is the asking deliverance enough?
What do you want? Not need, because need is something you have no say over. What do you want with the fierceness of flame and the grit of dripping water seducing rock into sand? What do you want with a passion that rages across your mind and your soul, without relent, without rest? What do you want to be, to assuage a fear building for years, that may be this is all there is and ever will be. What will shield you against the cutting licks of desperation and the beginning of despair? Where has your body of strength disappeared behind a shadow of impersonal mass? Do you want, and want badly enough? Will you, ever again?