It is my desire to speak, to create, to present, and to listen. I want to show the world the tangled web of my thoughts. I want to speak this pain, so that they may explain the misery. This desire flows through my being, never becoming. I understand now but do not see. Rest will relinquish my desire, rather than kindle a burning passion. My light will dim without breath; without life. Cold the room becomes, suffocating the moment. Toying evermore in the details of despair; I sit without thought and write without purpose. Ignition from the breath, my voice cries out. The silence is a deadening display of my failures. I have not experienced its boisterousness of grandeur, its pleasures of sweetness, its warmth of connection, and its possibilities of criticism. I must chase life’s bounty and relish in its wealth. I must chase my voice.