Restless Things

All I've Got

So I'm sitting here alone and I'm thinking to myself, What have I become? This is all I've got and it's nothing. What can I do with nothing?

I feel it inside of me. There's something there, just under the surface, and that's how it starts. I chip away at my skin until I break free what's lurking beneath and it spills out here. On this paper.

I suppose it's a craving. That must be what I feel. The addiction. I need so desperately to express something inside of me and the funny thing is that I don't even know what I'm trying to express. It's a storm in my chest and it hollows me out. It's a difficult thing to explain, this feeling.

It floods me whenever I watch dancing, or am captivated by lyrical twists of words; it hits me when I feel the first stroke of autumn, or the drumming of desire.

Passion. That's what it's called. And what good is it to me? What can I do with passion?

Nobody will pay to see my passion strung out on the sidewalk. Nobody will pay to pull my passion out of me. Nobody will pay enough to hear the echoes of my passion whispering through these pages. I can't keep the lights on, or the water running, or bills at bay by pushing them on with passion. I can't fill my gas tank up by dripping passion into it.

There's no degree for passion. And no one wants to pay for my passion, or perhaps catch a glimpse of it when I open the curtains. So I'm sitting here in this empty room with the curtains drawn and my passion on my lap. And I'm thinking this is nothing and I'm no one living in a world full of no ones who are full of nothing and have nothing and keep their curtains drawn so no one will see their nothings.

And this is what I've got. And I can't do a damn thing with it in this world. What the hell can I do with passion?

What a waste on me. Couldn't I have been molded with clay and stone? To be solid and practical? Something tangible? Instead, life took this and breathed it into me and there isn't a damn thing I can do with it.

I could sit here and tell you how beautiful it feels, and how sometimes it hurts so much I'd rather be empty. I could tell you that it feels like the universe uncurling in my lungs, or the earth growing in my bones, or everything I've ever felt snaking under my skin.

I could tell you that it kills me because it is infinite and I am not. That I am not enough for my infinite soul. And that I will never be enough.

And you could even understand it. Maybe you feel it too. After all, I'm not that special.

But what good is that? How the hell am I suppose to survive on passion when the world demands money, or skill, or practicality? How am I supposed to live when I've got nothing else to offer?

Let's face it, I'm not lucky enough to survive on authorship alone. There are billions of souls wandering this earth. How many of them has their passion saved? A few, perhaps. Those unique few who stand above the rest as the consequence of superior birth or lucky breaks. No ones who took their nothings and set the world on fire but I haven't got a match and no one's got the time.

And still greater suffer more than I could ever understand. How can I demand more when others have so much less, and yet, how can I settle for less when I know there is more? I'm not talking about money or fame, what fickle and useless things they are. I mean life. There is so much more- to feel and experience and to live. But I've never been lucky. And Big Breaks aren't my thing. And it wouldn't be enough anyway-just to survive. So how is my passion going to save me?

I'm convinced passion is the discourse of pain; that it should never let me be content. Because I want to experience more than my life would ever allow. And that's fucking heartbreaking.

I've become such a disappoint; just another no one I never wanted to be while my passion keeps me company. And that's rather sad, really. Because it's all I've got, this passion.

This passion for words in a world that barely reads, or hasn't got the time, or doesn't care. This passion for music and movement in a world that doesn't listen. This passion for life in a world that is dying; a world that we're killing.

So what can I do with all this? When it's nothing?

Let's be honest, everyone's a bit empty, it's not just me. And within this emptiness dwell my dreams. Sometimes I draw them out across my bedroom floor, like a hopeless romantic writing love letters, and I watch the light color them as they lie there, strewn about. And it's almost beautiful. Until there's a knock at the door and I have to put them away- back into my nothing and go back to the real world full of busy people who have their beautiful nothing's tucked nicely away just like mine.

I'm burning up inside. While I sit in this empty room with my curtains drawn and my passion on my lap and I'm thinking to myself, This is nothing.

And it's all I've got.