We should be waking up to mystery...
I have to write this fast. Before it goes away - before it dies - because it dies every night, a quarter after six, or so.
I get off work and I want to do something. To not do something is not acceptable. My time must be free to do something. To live.
I want to be with people. I want to be surrounded by close friends. We can talk. We can sit. But we must do something more, also. We should be lighting things on fire, so they can burn like our hearts.
To not do something that changes, that brings change, is not acceptable. We should be walking around in talkative groups, loving people and lighting buildings on fire.
But no, I’m all alone. my one friend around here is married and I can't blame him for not wanting to light things on fire with me. His heart doesn't seem to burn like mine, or I don’t see it; to lust after life like mine.
I want to share my life with people. To live with people. Friends. I want to share my life with one more closely than others. This is built into me. This is what my heart burns for. For life! Whatever that may be.
My family. I love my family. But I can only sit at their house so much. I want to be around people my own age. People whose hearts burn like mine. Be together so that we can share that burning. So that we can burn things together. We should be lightings things on fire together. We should be waking up.
Going home is not acceptable. Home is where loneliness is. loneliness is where temptation is. And temptation is where death is.
But this is never satisfied. So I never want to do what I need to. To work or go to work.
I’m tired of having my heart on fire like this only to have it burn itself out every night.
I want something more. To love. To live. And not have to force it. For the wounds that keep me from it to have time and space and grace and support to heal. To not be forced. Rushed.
Screw expectations and obligations and so-called responsibilities. I need more! I am afraid my heart will soon burn out and I will lose all of this. Fade into this death that is called life, of matching dishes and home-owning.
I want to be mobile. Nomadic bands of lovers and givers and arsonists.
I don’t want to know where I will be tomorrow. I don't want to know what I will be doing next week or the next month.
As the sun sets, now, it should be lighting this city, this landscape, on fire. We should be waking up to flames, to mystery. To life, to love, to friendship and companionship.
The sun should be setting flames loose, not taking its light away.
This city can only glow as it is burning to the ground.