We each have a well inside of us,
filled with exhilaration and craze.
It is our driving force.
It is the host of every moral and desire we once entertained.
It is the common truth that connects us all,
yet we fear its power.
We push it down, cover it up
all so that we won’t fall in.
At times of extreme emotion it geysers,
pushing past whatever held it in,
and releasing all at once a rush of life.
We remember these times,
we savor them -
good or bad -
because we know that at that moment
we caught glimpse of ourselves.

Then it’s time to rebuild the cap.

Of course,
there is always
the exception.

Oh, the genius reaches deep,
letting it consume him.
Hanging to the edge of reality’s ground by the toes
like the pole dancer’s finale,
forgetting to look back up at the very connections that hold her,
his mind becomes the body,
spinning round and round,
lost in the gravity of endless momentum,
sliding down into the depths of its heat,
releasing the poison that takes him whole
as art
as prose
as wisdom and knowledge.
They say he’s unwell.
But he is the well.
And so he continues to draw
the wrath
the speed
that the well procures,
experiencing the inconceivable moments of awe.

Destruction.
Ambivalent destruction.

He hears all, he feels all,
but he’s too busy;
he’s down deep in his well.
This is what life is;
this is how he spends his days.
Loudness of passion,
thorns of compassion,
He Lives.
Documenting his battles as
music
as movements and theories
until - quiet.
the journey’s over;
there’s no more.

silence.

Still
-ness fills the soul
passion has flown away
there is no more.
The well has gone dry.
The earth drags out the exhausted man,
still he collapses to the ground.
Abominable emptiness surrounds him.
A bittersweet peace, now he can rest.

It takes no zombie to understand that the genius’
romance with his own depths pushes them
to tragic ends.
His greed maims him.
He becomes amphibious under the water
but ignores the necessity of breath.
He drowns in his obsession.
The excess of life kills the man.

So take with consideration
to the potency of its water,
but never,
never grow thirsty in fear.