She tastes the word slowly, examining it with her tongue. Poet. Poet. How does one profess, qualify, to be a poet? Is it in the words, or in the heart? Is it in the flow of the words, from the heart through the soul via the synapse to the mind? And shouldn't these three, shouldn't they be the ones who speak? But no. Again, there is the flying thought that she can never catch, the shadow that always follows and always eludes. In the end, it always comes back to this. To this searching, the words a vain failing attempt to discover and yet pacify the darkness she is almost certain is at the bottom of whoever or whatever she may be. And how does one define an end? It seems more reasonable to think that there isn't one, although certainly not more helpful. Rather, the words appear to intertwine endlessly, a map that reconnects to itself upon every road. Simply a weaving that cannot possibly be unraveled, and therefore possesses no base. And if she thinks of it like that, she doesn't feel quite as bad, for perhaps then it is not her own failing, but rather an inherent inability to discover truth.

Truth. Ha, the subjects for self-abuse are endless. She knows that the only reason she does not find truth is because she keeps turning away from it, too afraid to be real, too afraid to exist, too afraid to be happy. To be happy. It would seem such a simple state, once achieved. She has all the keys and yet does nothing for fear of unleashing happiness, as though it was some demon of whichshe might never be rid. Why should she run from this state, this word that speaks so effortlessly of fulfillment? Does she not know the answers to such questions or does she simply choose not to find them?

And oh so tired, so weary, and yet unable to rest for the insomnia of sadness that plagues her. Who has cursed it to be so? Can she not rewrite the destiny that seems to be unfolding so impossibly before her eyes. Please, not another life gone to waste, not another word spent on deaf ears, not another heart stabbed on blind immaturity. She feels a mere babe, crying for someone to show the way.