I’ve been adrift for months now. I find myself dissolving into an entity I far from desire but recognize only too well – the crusty outline of everything I am loath to own up to, a hard shell that echoes only the hollow screams of captivity. I can’t seem to trace my way back to what I used to be or even the person I was on my way to becoming. The memories resonate like a robust dream – strong and rich, like the hot black coffee I succumb to, they flood my insides with the same intensity that it took to create them. In place of the raging flames are now just the feeble embers of a yearning for the winding back of the clock. How many times can you run backwards and take your place at the starting block, poised for the firing of the gun? Does the last straw land quietly or with a big bang when you’re completely off track and definitely off keel? Does it matter then whether you drop down and crawl, move around in circles, or simply stay put? All the nothings you’ve been collecting just do not add up to anything and replaying old images on the grainy walls inside your head offer no respite. I have this urge to ignite this overplayed surface that seems to cling to me, raze everything to the ground and allow myself to be buried under the heaps of soft grey ash that it may yield. I have this urge to do the same with my desires too, set them all on fire inside my being and watch as the leaping flames lick away the flesh and blood that supposedly make me who I am. When your desires stop fueling you, they begin to burn their way inside, creating a cavity to hold just about anything – a different dream, a fragmented soul, a life jump-started, the electricity of an entire world you thought no longer existed.