scruta

I am possessed by my dreams, my passions.

If you would ask me how I am different from most people, I would say it is this.

But these others…these others… what is it then when they look at me like a madman?

How do they see me? A foaming, fidgeting madman? Babbling at street light shadows? Lost in dayglow rantings? Chasing the sounds of ringing strings? Hanging on the breath of just-spoken words? Consuming all thoughts of the future, of progeny, of safety for that demon burning inside of me?

Are they devoid of passion? Or are they afraid to let their passions consume them?

I don’t know. To me, they are madmen as well.