Energy

I'm teeming with potential at this moment. What do you want to do? Where do you want to go? Let's do it. Let's go. Let's fucking do something amazing and worthwhile, climbing out of this mud that we've been stuck in for years. These thoughts are fleeting, I know, but now they have a sense of permanence. I wish I could scream and all my passion would be conveyed -- a futile effort, likely.

We've given up everything, as if we held something at all. We're in China. Now what. The emptiness is there, the excitement of the moment gone, as we long nostalgically for yesterday, for what we felt in that moment. Daydreaming, we begin to sink again. There's a certain excitement about being homeless -- the feeling of being more alive; at least for a week. A warm bed is all we want, we say, to be happy, to keep us from the rain, hail, wind and loneliness. What better is it compared to what we have -- our passion and our courage, our lives.

Still, I am restless. If I think hard enough, there will be peace in the form of full-on, overwhelming life. As if this isn't life. As if there is something more real inside of me, trying (not very hard) to escape and exist. I hold on to the familiar, to my home, to my work, for no-more stronger a reason than why I like orange juice -- perhaps for a weaker reason.

Remember when we went to China? Wasn't it perfect?

The end of the world is near. It always is. Such are the times we live in, the same as our friends of the past have contemplated, have shared with their old friends. It's our turn to share what they've thought, through our mouths. Perhaps I love you. Perhaps it doesn't matter. Perhaps we're all that is beautiful in this world and poets of the future and poets of the past will write of us while clutching their hearts, cursing their useless pens.

Let's just keep singing.