How could I have forgotten? Even for a moment, of the passionate embrace that has driven me to remain alive for this long?
How dare I forget even for a moment the delicious rhythmicity and complexity of words.
To be reminded by the master himself, who with anonymity and perverse beauty thrust the life back into me.
To be reminded of what life is for, why we breathe and why I bother to get up every morning. The raison de etre. Is this what happens in my old age? I must never again forget that words are what I am here for, and words are why I shall remain. That this is how I love, this is how I breathe, this is my inheritance to my kin. This is why the moon howls at me to be stirred again by its halogen glow; this is why I cry in the dark, to be moved, to be alive in this, my spotlight.
This shall be my promise. I shall never forget this passion that had somehow managed to ebb away from my existence. That has been torn out by order and hunger and greed.
It shall open this wound in me again, the slow bleed that shall not be stemmed. The slow bleed that leads to eventual death; but that lingers.
Let it stain my bed, let it stain my lips, let it seep into the edges of my existence. Let it shine like a bold neon sign. Let it drive me, push me, salvage me. Let it be me. This is who I am and I need to hold it in my hands, squash it tenderly if need be. To allow its essence to ooze out of its seed; this walnut that will not be quietened until it has had its fill.
Let this blood be a birth. Messy and smelly, and raw, and primal. And I shall channel this magic. I shall be its instrument.
Again.
