There are words, fathomless, unbound, scratching out from the core of you, burning to be formed into knowing. There is hidden, silent violence working itself within you, unknown even to you except as you lay awake in the night, the moonlight filtering through the slits in the blinds like starlit screams. What is it that so desperately needs to be spoken? Is it that your days have fallen like marbles to the ocean floor of mundanity, and you seek the overwhelming force of suffering, the cleansing purge of pain, to remind you of what it is that is beauty, to stir you back into remembrance of passion?
Ah, yes, you are tired. Your body is sore, your immune system is battling some invading horde, and your mind is sick with work and worry. But what kind of excuse is this to the sleepless void within you? What does the god within you know of such pettiness?
To speak, finally, of that which bubbles upward through subterranean fissures of your being, is like drilling down into the earth, and striking oil. Stored reserves of energy manifest themselves suddenly in outward movement. That which is pressurized will eventually find its outlet into another waiting form of containment. The cells branch forward into the light, forming bodies, minds, universes of dancing mirrors struggling to mimic infinitude on the tongue of a moment. Nothing can truly be said that has not already been formed in the deepest essential core of you. What you speak is of a process, of a stream, of a movement that is always circular, but never the same, for it is spinning ever toward itself into a future that is unknown.
You need this, this struggle, these imperfect structures of desire and transcendence.
Without the awakening in the night to see the world as it sleeps, you would not know yourself.