You say that no one
can see the way your eyes light up the night.
But I am looking
and I see
that you have more than just
a way to be alive--

Come with me
see the things
you have promised to see.

No other way is worth it, can't you see that this is made for you?

Instead you rip angel wings into fine down
sifting through the remains and making them into a pillow
for your weariness.

How can you already be weary?

Be joyful, choose it.

Free.

I get jealous of writers. Perhaps more aptly, their characters, their shameless (if not flawless) display of combinations of letters and words. I walk into bookstores and mock them slightly, turning up my nose at the raised print on the covers, the way the books smell so new when you flip through them-- all of the possible adventures that begin and end within 50000 words. I pretend like this may not be what I have always yearned for-- an absolute adventure, to any ends, with no confines. I like adventure, I like change-- my roommate told me I foster it, crave it (much like the unfortunate caffeine addiction I seem to have developed.) Maybe it is not so much the adventure that I love as it is the possibility, unrestrained, that at any moment (barring financial restraints) I am absolutely FREE.

I like this.