I've never been that stable, you see.
But neither was Beethoven. Nor Picasso. Nor Poe. Nor Hemingway.
What's the fun in watching sailboats and sunsets all the time? Placidity never much suited me. I'm not sure what it is.
They tell me I was wired wrong.
You're the odd one out, they said. You're strange. Maybe my brain was knitted with the threads of tornadoes. Woven nets of Expressionistic art, quietly catching all the passions of the Greek gods in its complicated trap.
I have prickly bramble for grey matter,
Tsunamis for cerebral fluid, stirring up my calm, rational thoughts until they're nothing of the sort.
If David Hume were still alive, I'd have him over for champagne.
Perhaps he'd like Pour le Piano, too.
"No matter what the passion is: let it be disagreeable, afflicting, melancholy, disordered; it is still better than that insipid languor which arises from perfect tranquillity and repose."
Give me anything but slow slumber, for that is what wears me out the quickest.
Come to me, all silent sailors, if your seas are still tonight,
if the world's not big enough for you, if infinity is at your fingertips, but not in your grasp.
Come to me if you want to rip the electrodes off your pulse. We can run together to the arhythmic beats of our restless hearts.
We'll build a canoe with those dead, languid lives. We'll row our way to the Netherworlds.
And then we'll catch them in nets, every fiery tragedy, every subliminal flight,
until our backpacks are full. Until we have to hold those brilliant stars, like tiny crystals, in our hands.