Reason and passion spin my dreams like a man with a wolf clamped onto his throat. Red of tooth, feigning to prefer the ivory tower. Scrubbing my skin as if I don't feel so inclined to rut through rotting vegetables and filth with the proudest hogs. The climate is bitter and restrictive, the ice so infuriatingly indifferent in its calm, so different from just a few days ago when it fell upon me newborn and exciting, graceful and raging.
I've talked myself to a quiet defeat with a mechanical pencil and inherent, desperate needs. Tonight I am a young man, though only as reluctantly admitted as my costume is believable. And tomorrow I will be more dead than beast or man, but I see in this endless chain of Now that the beast of passion will have its day, its jaws finally closing around my throat and transfusing me with the merciless vigor of true love and truer hate, and I will never again need to muster the soft strength to shit out just one more excuse to keep my feet dry, my belly full, and my spine weak. The gentle and virtuous faults of man carve the fertile valleys that are shadowed by the peaks and crags that scrape the godless air, the ancient mountains thrust into the proud sky by the fathomless actions of the beast of passion, for whom there are no faults but the seismic.
I need to go home, sharpen my claws, and forget my speech. I know nothing, truly, except that which cannot be spoken aloud, and our foolhardy words fall on the ears of the deaf as the wind bashes itself through a forest, the brainless trees swaying and sucking sun and dirt and paying no attention to the infinite and formless strength which will someday uproot the lot of them.
2-4-11, 4:30 am, Springfield, MO