this world spins fast, and still, i wonder at how i spin faster.
i wonder at how i dredge words up recycled from my lungs and unravel them into the air without care for the final product. i wonder at my love for the act of spinning, for the exhilarating, light-headed feeling i get when exposing every hidden flaw and every not-so-secret desire. you see, i am constantly coughing up my heartache and i have to wonder at the addicted high; the need to tell every sting and every warmth. the need to break open my ribcage and spill out these emotions onto canvas and paper, smearing the colors with dirtied fingertips before moving on.
yet, i do not come and look back at what i have spun; i do not have the time or inclination to come and ponder the mess and the best way at which to fix it. i simply move on. a wildfire with no care for the burnt hillsides in my wake. call me heartless, but i saw the wonder in the young boy's eyes when he saw the flames. call me heartless, but in the heart of my chaotic life, i can feel the undercurrent of my pulse, and that has always been enough for me.
you see, i have touched the soul of the willow and i have slept curled in the stars, and i can come to tell you that both are beautiful and neither are free. no, the heat and the bark and the biting edge will leave those brave enough to touch them scarred in their wake. they will leave the daring crippled for their efforts will leave them with badges to remind of the cost of beauty, the cost of freedom, the cost of courage.
i am scarred and i am flawed, and i will stand before the world with stained fingers to tell my story. i will sing off-key, write with blood when i have no pen, and i will revel in the telling rather than the final story. i will strip the words from my bones and i will dry the ink with my final breath. i will live with the red ribbon of my voice trailing behind me, marking each tragedy and passion and place of sorrow. this trail of my words will litter my history across the world, papering each apartment and each city street with the adjectives of my tongue. you will be able to mark my life and where i have touched for the mess i have left behind. for the burnt landscape, for the paint-smeared walls and the ink-splattered lives i have touched.
i will live as i die: spinning faster than the world and burning hills in my wake.
i will live as i die: spinning and burning and telling stories with no end.
[because the words are my life and in these words, i will live.]