Such a ravenous beast,
hungry for inspiration,
an idea that could never push through,
a thought that knows no end.
And you think,
“Am I like that beast,
who wants nothing more than to feel,
to not falter or stop,
to go on living with a meaning that hasn’t been found?”
“Do I want to be that beast?”
you ask yourself–direct,
as the satyr used to tell you,
during the conversations of absent voices.
But you hear the satyr,
even if it’s only letters and words you see–
symbols of a thought, an idea,
concise but not free.
“No,” is your answer to those questions,
to the mirrors that curb.
And you await the usual feeling of pride
that follows the depriving decision of hurt.
But it’s late. It hasn’t come.
And you’re still waiting.
And you realize the void, the emptiness,
lies in the wait.
Because you’ve let go of something,
thinking it hadn’t made an impact,
thinking you wouldn’t feel a thing.