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I want to risk all of me: heart, mind, spirit, body, beliefs. I want to throw it all up to the wind and watch in wonder what new thing it makes when it falls. I don’t want to re-create myself; I want to release myself. I want to throw off the shackles of safety and comfort that are more important to me than just about anything else.

I want to be wild. I think, “my problem is that I am not mad enough.” My madness should be shattering. Because life is mad. But I corral life and my madness both. I organize them. I temper them. Until all the mad, swirling colors of them turn a weary grey.

And then I have the audacity to wonder why it is that I am depressed.

So much of me is geared to the very act of depressing me–the wildness of me, the bestiality of me. My hunger. My spark. My ceaseless yearning. The part of me that wants to scream at the world, piercing, devastating screams like an animal in death throes: Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!

I am fire. I am rage and despair and grief. I am all that has and will ever be, and I walk in a skin that is at times stretched too thin and at others, too contracted.

I cannot have my safety and also have my life.

Tonight, I want to burn.