We'd Set The Fire To The Third Bar

I had a doctor’s appointment today. On the way home I came to a dead end with one of those yellow signs with a big black arrow pointing in both directions, as if people couldn’t tell that the road did in fact end right there. Left was home, right was not. I went right and drove, unable to speed due to the abundance of police patrolling. I felt trapped by the cops around and the giant fence encompassing my whole life. I had no where to go, no place that would offer more comfort than right there, in the car, driving aimlessly through the cluster-fuck of streets. My mind was wondering, like it had been for the past three days, and I knew right then why I had no place to go; In my hands was a torch, burning hot and strong, and I was carrying it to each bridge that led away from here.

As if that wasn’t enough, as if the realization that I had brought upon my own capture wasn’t sufficient to knock me down and spit on me, what really got to me, the kick in the gut if you will, was the fact that I was trapped right where I wanted to be. So why the panic? Why the constant searching? Why am I still looking for something I can’t quite see, can’t quite touch, can’t quite name?

Through The Storms That Lead Me Astray

Last night I began to write a letter to someone I love. I sat in my room, boxes from the move everywhere, my bed unmade and my laptop on my knees. The keyboard felt so familiar, so comforting underneath my finger tips, yet that small normalcy did little to ease my racing heart. I began to type, the words coming out forced and ridged. It wasn’t until about halfway through the letter that I broke, my breath coming in ragged gasps, the tears flowing freely. It was at that moment, the very instant I felt myself losing control, that I realized a few things. First there was the realization of how dependant I am on the one who put the ring on my finger. Second there was the realization of just how much I loved the one I was to send this letter to. Third was the realization of how badly I wanted, no, ached, for a summer storm. I still feel it on me now, no matter how much I try to deny it. I feel it all over, like some thick abrasive slime I can’t rid myself of. I need something clean, something pure, to cleanse with. But it’s not raining, and it wont rain for a good long while. And until it does, I’m afraid the filth will spread.