Compulsive Drive

In the crowd known as life I am torn by my ambitions. I am pulled to bits by my desires, destroyed by my thoughts. Memories and emotions shatter me and scatter the pieces like glass. In this noise I am drawn everywhere and nowhere. I want everything but receive nothing. In this cacophony, this raging orchestra of greed, a voice calls out to me. The voice is lucid and clear, a single drop in a storm. There is a whisper in my being, a faint breeze in my mind. Slowly but gradually, the whisper elevates into a shout. It silences all the other voices, one by one, until finally, it is the only thing that I can hear. The voice echoes in my heart and resonates with my being. It drives me and beckons me to to pick up pen and paper. When this sound overwhelms me I know what I desire. Obsessively, compulsively, there is only one thing I can do. I must write. I realize that it's the only way to show the real me, a pure record of myself. I will imbue history with a shade of my being, imbibe this page with my soul. Like a scarlet drop, red as blood and dark as night. Blue light; calm, translucent, the sky's reflection. My body and mind cease to exist within this world's page. Only my spirit remains here.