I need to write.  It is burning within me.  As my days jumble themselves together in the misery of a life I do not want, the freedom of flying is slowing down to a barely recognizable crawl.  The need to see and feel something beyond these sad souls that surround me is becoming once again a compulsion.  The need to breathe without the stink of failure is crushing me.

I have given and I have taken. I have given my heart and tried to bring solace to the part of my soul desperate for the freedom of art; the fighting strength of the pen.  I am drowning in the mundane seconds of a normal life; the job, the dinner, the afternoon tea.  I am drowning in the extraordinary commonplace that has become my only world.

The dreams still float along my conscience like sparkling lights in the middle of the day; there but so magical as to be almost part of the dream.  There is the hole that is not filled by the passion that I call so easily, and there is a moment’s fear that death will come before hope. There is a space the sits, closing tragically and systematically, as I ignore all that I know and all that I feel for the drudgery that is common life.

I feel the breath slowing as my life is drying and feeling like the arid winds of the Serengeti.  I want to scream Hallelujah, and feel the wind as it runs through my drifting fingers.  I want to know love as only I can see in the darkness of my imagination, and I want to create the facts that will redefine the world as I know it.  It is there; waiting.

I want to believe without worrying about the eventual death.  I want to swim in the direction that will provide the sustenance I need to live.  I want to run so fast the wind mourns my presence.  I want to be so much more than what is dictated, what is determined, what is never risked.  I want to sing so that God himself can fall asleep.

I feel the angels pushing and pulling me away from the decisions I have made this day.  I feel the muse yelling in my ear to find another path; and I feel the truth, the loneliness of not listening.  I feel the death solely stealing over me, and the knowledge that in the darkness I will never find the light.  I feel the twin swords dueling to stay or fly.  And ultimately, the sword of responsibility will kill not just the floating dreams of today, but the very essence of me.

The tip of that sword lies on the heart that is atrophied by disappointment and disillusion.  The tip of that sword lies on the broken promises and the knowledge of the pending destruction that will destroy the hope of rebuilding.  The tip of that sword takes no prisoners, and no hostages; it makes no promises, it only destroys.  And the beats of my heart is leading to a destruction that will destroy even the weapon that fells it.

There is beauty missing; there is no journey through the veritable monsoon of colors that life shows in each instant.  There is a sincere lack of magnificence to sustain even the simplest corners of my soul.  Rather the bleakness of reality has smothered so much in me as to make me mute.

But I remember the feeling of flying, as if I did it in the splendid dawn this morning brought.  I remember that hope, those promises, those dreams that I once promised were so easily attained.  I remember those thoughts of imperfection that brought the truth of heaven and earth like nothing else could.  I remember the secrets of the angels that reminded me I was more.

There is no path but the one in which I crawl.  There is no solution to a world that has wrapped it’s darkness around me and given me nothing but a depression I am fighting with a sword pointed in the wrong direction.  There is no other way. There is no other way to endure.

The responsibilities of parenthood, the simple tasks of being a wife, requires that dreams and hopes lay on the side of the path like carcasses of life.  The meaning of the accountability, the dependability, the reliability, takes the beauty out of infatuations.  The grey takes the passion; the indifference takes the madness.  And one is left with the one I knew my nightmares could bring.

Will I continue to lose myself until the death of my dreams, and the death of my soul, becomes a simpler path? Will I continue to find no strength in losing a fight with a monster that succeeds in drowning all beauty from the eye?  Will I continue to be silent, and lose all the comfort of the madness I hold onto it?  Will I forget the feeling of a beautiful turn of words?  Will I forever be blinded by the simplicity that surrounds me?  Will I slowly lose the capability to breathe until the night finally comes to rescue me and send me to the home I always dreamed?