When all else is taken away, there remains only the basic urge, the never-ending summons, the constant pull towards the unknown and the insane excitement of new potential just coming into focus on the horizon. There is only the adventure sprawling ahead.
Beneath the doubt there is tremulant anticipation, leeching out from your physical core into the rest of the body to be embraced, to be felt, breathed, excreted into the atmosphere where its rightful purpose is to engage and play with the essence of others. The physical sensation of “what may be” impacting the body is what motivates, drives, energizes, animates.
For how long have I gone without this sensation, this signpost, blind to all its amperage and purposefully obscuring its message? How did I convince myself that all it had been was a ghost, when in fact it lived inside of me, always pounding or waiting patiently til my resistance dissolved and I acknowledged the truth of its existence? Through all the doldrums, the conformity and dullness more insipid than spasmodic death, it waited, like a mother at the foot of her inconsolate child’s bed. Through all that time it swaddled me.
Like resolute father it waited for its turn to guide, to show the joys of the world and life to my timid eyes, and pierce my petulant guise. My moody child—oh, my darling child.
And now I listen, listen deep, because the alternatives of boredom and melancholy have proven worse by far to deal with than the terror of new things. With near a grim resolve I’ll confront the haggard face of fate and say “Go on then, do your worst,” because I’ve seen it all and coped with all the trifling hardships of my nascent sphere, and I want more.
I gladly reach my fists towards heaven and beckon down the thunder come, to fry me if it may but show me unequivocally the power of the elements, the raw materials of God.
I’ve slept throughout the dawning of my life, and now it’s day. The sun is creeping through the sky and sure enough my youth which once felt infinite begins decaying.
The call to life resounds for you and I. It grips as does a wrench and turns the bolts inside.
The bell within so steady tolls—
it rings, it sounds, it chimes.