Writing Freely, Breathing Deeply

It is a shame we cannot breath water
as easily as air. Imagine what beauty
would be open to us if we could.
My head is no heavier than the air
filling my lungs. I'm sick of waiting
for change. That can only mean that
change has to come through my hands.
What can this change be when I feel
so mute and helpless? I have love
but it is bound to a small room
for the time being before it can be
allowed to move freely through the
crowd. I am sick of playing things safe.
I am ready to set fire to the comfort
of which I've become accustomed.
I wish to feel the heat of fire and breath
ash and let my skin be covered in soot.
I am ready to smell the scent of burnt
wood in a decimated forest. I am ready
to feel the sweaty heat of the jungle.
It is true when they say you cannot
run away from yourself. You will only
persist in your continued existence
and become hyper-aware of the limits
and strengths of your own flesh. How
can our consciousness exist comfortably
in this imperfect housing unit? I'm sure
it would move out if it could but it makes
due until it can find a better place to crash.
An eraser used on a blank page is a futile
exercise. Turn up the volume, I cannot
hear the voice singing to me, I cannot
make out the words that seem to mean
so much. I remember at that moment that
there are no words, just music. Just emotion
running through the filter of mood and
interpretation. There is a place nearby
where we can go. What will we find there?
Nothing but wind. Nothing but water.
A calmness needed as the storm rolls in,
a calmness needed as it rolls out, and when
it is here, an acceptance that this too
is something that can be survived,
can be used to strengthen what lurks inside.