Unsatisfied
An exploration of my heart. Why does it hurt? The feeling of it there, but not fully. The shallow breath, stifled flow, the unknown beat of decadent desire, doubting desolation. I am invested in a dream, and I ignore what could be now. I am drawn to the arc of the covenant, drawn with a whip in my hand. The 
desire for adventure, daring and dynamic. Deny not what dawn brings, the croaking of the toads and the songs of the birds. There is a beetle here with a bright green shell. Each movement sheds reflected light like drops of dew.
I think the heaviness in my heart is a reminder: I am alive. I am alive! There is blood, there is brain, and the left brain keeps thinking and the right brain goes to sleep. The light shed from my computer screen draws the fruit flies, the mosquitoes, and I hunger for human contact. I hunger for touch, for real touch, for touch that is comforting, stimulating, I yearn for the stroke of soft fingers and the strength of a hug.
All the while as I sit here, yearning, the world passes me by. There is a video camera next to me, and it calls with, siren, to create, create, create something to leave behind. This is stream-of-consciousness, it is real, it is thought. But it is, ultimately, effortless. I leave behind any thought of what should be, what could be, and just create. I write words no one need read, words that no one will care about. Tomorrow I will read through my blog for the hundredth time, and I will marvel that I wrote that, I wrote that, and I will feel satisfied, and will write no more.
Until the heaviness of my heart drives me to do something, anything, with my time here.
I go take a picture of a dog.
