Stream of Consciousness

The rain makes a sound on my sky-window that comforts me. It falls evenly and consistently and I like this reliability. My head is pounding as if there is a sharp little hammer inside my cerebrum tap-tap-tapping away above my eyelids and on my temple. Add to this repertoire the fast beating of my heartbeat (which is for the most part, beating unevenly, fluttering like a delicate little papillon above flowers in a meadow) and you have a neat little rythm: heartbeats, raindrops and a throbbing head. 

You're gone and there is nothing I can do about it. 

I want to read everything. I want to read every beautiful goddamn word that every talented writer in the world has ever written. I want to find beauty everywhere and feel nourished to combat this famine. I want to know that beauty exists outside of your countenance and your spirit. 

I want to write poetry. Not stupid, lame poetry, but poetry that is armed with unbelievable feeling and conviction. I think I can do that now, now that I know what it feels like to long for something -- someone -- or rather, an image of someone that you once loved, that changed into someone who could not be touched by affection nor moved by adoration. 

I just want to feel better.