You know the terrible, intimate ache of skin hunger? The desire for human contact, the desire to be seen, to be touched, to be connected to others and therefore part of some greater organism.
I feel that hunger for stories. The need to create, to breathe stories through my blood and my lungs and scrawl them on every available surface. Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, I will look up and find that every single thought or observation has meaning. The weather exists as a backdrop to narratives which form and reform like bubbles in boiling water. I feel them float through me, bubbles of paint and ink, of words or music.
Sometimes I wonder if everyone feels this way - and if they do, how they hide it so well. When every second is filled to the brim and overflowing with mythic significance, how do people continue to talk about the weather and what they had for lunch? When every sound carries the beginning of a beat, the thought of music, why do people not dance more?
2012-04-30
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