This longing is unsustainable. It is too violent an unrest to be my natural state and almost certainly a symptom of something I cannot yet fathom. It stripped me of every goal and desire I once held until all I could do was read. Which I did for months on end. But the restlessness grew and reading turned into research.
I thought perhaps I was taking notes for a creative project. But every imagined project fell away and now only the research remains. I am forced to let it lead me.
I spent the first half of my life discarding inspiration and calling it discipline. I pinned down and muffled my soul in order to pursue not what I desired, but what I decided. I swam against myself and confused that inner conflict for difficulty, assumed only difficult victories had value.
I wanted to create great things but I am destined for something small and plainspoken. Even now I am being buffeted against the upper reaches of an intellect I cannot strain further, just from sounding out the words of those who came before me. They took great pains to cultivate a world inside themselves where I must be contented with a garden.
But every person has a discrete sensitivity to language, with hand-crafted connotations based on a singularly unique lifetime of encounters with words. The same story can be told a thousand times and a thousand different ways: we do not get to decide what does or does not pierce us.
I was invited to a party to celebrate people I admire but do not know personally. I did not introduce myself. I ate and drank and watched as others embraced, shared stories and laughed. Some worked up the courage to shake hands with the Guests of Honor.
But now people are yawning. Deep, powerful yawns that demand outstretched arms. A great reaching with no desire behind it. Yawns like that signal it is time for the circular ceremony of goodbyes. We are encouraged to make our rounds before the next party arrives.
I forgot to speak when there was time, and no one will notice if I quietly depart and do not say goodbye. But I want to say goodbye.
I have almost finished sweeping away all the sentimental dust. Dust that blankets a thing deemed too precious to touch. Now it is time for me to hold it for myself and turn it over in my hands. And I promise to do my best to describe it for you before I go.