Eyes wander back and forth back and forth, back and forth.
Your fingers drum absent mindedly against the black paper, you chew the eraser of your midget pencil.
All these images floating inside of your mind and beautiful and drive such an urge of painstaking passion clear down to the very core of your soul.
You cannot release it, this passion so fiery it threatens to incinerate you from the inside out.
How did you get this way? Not being able to find the right words?
A voice is hushed in the back of your mind but you were trained that way, trained to be like you are. These images you carry so near and dear and pushed aside because that's all that can be done, with training, becomes a new structure that must be filled. It is indescribable, yet so common most all of us have undergone it.
Slowly we start losing the rawness of our true self, only to be polished little army men, robots, models of what we should be. What should we be? Could be? Would be...? Never mind that we mustn't think on the past that we turned away from. We wanted to succeed and dammit that's what were going to do, even if it is posed as someone else.
Where is our passion now? Oh right, we sold it, traded it, willed it away, copied it, stole it, wreaked havoc on it, mistreated it, abused it, used it, and distrusted it. What's more powerful than a passion that drives you? Oh right, the million of little things along the journey that eats a hole right through it's solid exterior. All that's left is a shell.
So what do we do with the damn thing?
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