I Still Want You.

Through the turmoil and all the hardship. Through the fruitless attempts. Through the silent reception, the doubts born out of that terrifying silence, this is still what I want. Not to leave or give up. Not to give in our give up. Not to cramp my flaky soul into something insincere, but to give out that which needs letting go and to nurture that which needs to stay a little longer before taking flight. You should hold this out just as much. Wrap the talent in see-through tinfoil and offer it nicely to anyone who passes you by. The feeling will not ever change, the desire for want will not ever lessen, but the yearning to create will override the hunger for acceptance. Mark these words however unsuspecting; mark them so you are prepared. Mark them to keep you company tomorrow night when the darkness descends with immense loneliness, the unbearable kind. More often than not those nights appear and with them you slowly disappear.  

The extent of your talent, the measure that you have been rationed with, the level which moves with the apparent gravity of the rotating globe have been set. Unchangeable. But you fight it. Like a wrongly accused innocent man. Like a sane person admitted to a mental institution you resist the straight jacket, you pull away from the stethoscope probing. These are your rights and you must listen, sign, adhere to, abide by. While you try to shake the chains, protest against the boundaries of your creativity there are precious moments that leave you. The effort to be that which you are not takes as much out of you as if you were quietly creating. In the backdrop of the setting sun, calmly honing the craft. There are instances when you must learn to communicate the silence. Describe the dark and empty. The challenges lie not in loudly parading but moderately marching. Picking the fights that are worth fighting and accepting the limits that have been set.  

For we all fall short of the glory. Question every effort and demand each and every member of the audience to appraise. Yet we are quick to pass judgment when it presents itself. How hypocrisy breeds in places obvious and in people vain enough. You should see it coming. But hold on to your talent how very little or big it may be. There is no choice. There never was. The choice of doing or not, the choice of going or not, the choice of listening or not is not passed to those who create. Learn to receive just as well.  

We are all broken and mended by the possibility of making something bigger, more lasting, touching to someone who reads, hears, listens. As broken souls so often are, I am terrified of failure. Cut pieces of tape to stick to parts of me that are about to break off. Fall off. Those parts can only be saved by you. If you decide to read and read on. Read despite sussing out the very low levels of talent that embalms the page. Honesty never hid from these lines and in the grip of an intangible drive, I write to stay true to the only thing I know will lead me to what I need to find in life. You should follow that too. Somehow. Enter the maze for there must be a way out. There is because despite being lost, lonely and disappointed, despite setting myself up for hurt and pain, there is nothing I would rather do than night after night want to feel the want, the pull, the unending desire to write. I still want it. I still want you.