As I get older I become more and more aware of the lunacy and the stress, the defeat. I can't sleep at night. I can't walk down the street. All of these faces that meet me I know far removed and deep down within there somewhere lies a few sparks that haven't made their way up to the heart yet. Either life or death emanates from people's eyes. You can grasp for it and play with it if it's not there, the sparks are lacking and a drab and lifeless expression bounces back at you. I wish that I could reach down there and pluck it out and set it in their wet eyeballs.
Perhaps I am naive but I thought that the mystery would have been solved by now. Is it wrong of me to assume that one day I'd wake up and discover that I was just as excited as other people are about everything? But I'm still excited about not being excited, I'm still thinking that my greatest feat yet will be in striving to be a passionate individual.
I remember when I was a little girl, I lived in a dream world. I believed in ghosts and fairies. I believed that Luke Skywalker and Leia Organa were up there somewhere in the stars. I believed that the universe owed us all something. That the wind and the sky and the trees in all of their beauty would steadfastly deliver the dream to my waiting arms.
The dazzle has fizzled, and I don't believe in magic either. But I don't want to be inspired anymore, nor ride the coat tails of the muses, I want to inspire. Perhaps for a moment I'd accepted the task of arranging pillows as a suitable excuse to exist, but I'm tired of being the chick under the heat lamp. I want to know the reason why things sparkle.
I gave up because nobody ran with me. I guess I have to run alone if I want to refuse the mundane in passion. If for a second you had said, yes, this is it, and this is magical. Then, there'd be no excuse for me.
