Tossing and Tortured 'Till Dawn

I come back to you now, at the turn of the tide.

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

I am the anti-zen. Another night of a throbbing, pounding heartbeat, urging me to further heights of intensity that I struggle to find in the mortal world. Another night of dreams, and of stories. Nothing inside me is calm, peaceful. I've always been attracted to the intense, to the point I fear it becomes trite and cliche. My entire life is a metaphor of fire; I long for strong emotions, intense experiences. They don't have to be complex to be intense; sometimes, the simplest things carry the greatest weight. I long for a lingering gaze that burns all the way down my spine, to look up at the moon and feel my heart race, to awaken to the sound of drums; a deep, subsonic basso thrumming inside me. It takes me away.

I have stood at a thousand starting lines in a thousand worlds; the finish is always obscured to me. The finish line does not matter, and yet I long for victory, triumph. Perhaps I should be more "goal-oriented," but GOALS aren't in my nature so much as the DRIVE. Usually one associates the word 'driven' with an infinitive, like "to win" or "to madness." For me, it's not that way. The greatest quest of my adult life is to search for things I am driven TO. I love to race, but it is not the glory of the crowd I seek. When I reach the end and look back, I'll know whether I have won or lost. If by the end of my life there is an ounce of strength left in my legs, in my heart, then I'll know I have lost. I will conquer the world; my world, at least.

Loneliness compounds the anger inside me. There is a lot of it, and I fear most people don't understand that. The rage is just one of a swell of intense emotions that make me who I am, make me feel I'm human, and I revel in them. For entirely too long, I was entirely too cerebral, stuck in thoughts with in thoughts within thoughts. THAT drives me crazy. The passion is liberating. I thrive on words like "TRIUMPH," "ECSTASY," "PASSION," and on the metaphorical contexts of nearly every synonym for "FIRE": "IMMOLATION," "SEARING," "BOILING," "CONFLAGRATION," "SMOLDERING," "EMBER," "INCENDIARY." When I hear these words, the drums in my head grow a little louder.

It's instinctual. It's primal.

A fire in the dark, beneath the stars, massive hide-covered drums are relentlessly pounded; naked bodies painted with crimson streaks dance to the rhythm, chanting, wailing. I feel this every day before something HAPPENS.

I awaken with the sharp intake of breath that comes only in movies, my eyes glistening. I've never seen my eyes, naturally, not in those moments, but I have been told that shades of red are indeed visible through the deep browns that normally pigment my irises.

Further cliche is how my passion relates to love. I fantasize about nights of writhing, uninhibited passion - this is true. I don't want a timid, submissive partner; the lover of my dreams can kick my ass just as well. I imagine the same fire in her eyes.

But the real kicker, the thing that brings me tears when I awaken alone, is that there is nothing to soften the edges of the razor I walk on. What I really miss is not only the burning gazes at night, but the gentle caresses in the morning. In love there is passion, and intensity, but there is also peace.

Fragments of love, and of peace, have been flickering though my life, on and off, but I've only found it completely once, and it only lasted three days; but that's another story entirely.


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