Composition

Why the mountains beneath the sea? They are birds in a cave, in a cage, was the sky not made for thee? I'm worried, reaching into a hive of bees, looting nectar from venus' barbed maw. Well? I'm a flying hawk who cannot land, cannot see, legs broken, heavy beneath, but with the wind brushing my hair? I don't care, really I don't care, tell me not to care. The beautiful hair, I cannot run. Nothing for to run no more. I'm flying.

Today my reading was all over the literary sphere. I read poetry by Sylvia Plath (so incredibly talented, so intensely macabre); a long essay regarding ADHD and educational differences; Jane Kenyon poetry; a little fantasy novel, some mystery/sci-fi; some comedy; some news. Mostly poetry. I'm fairly certain my technique for learning poetry is flawed in nature, but for a beginning it is a fascinating endeavor. I'm simply gorging on poetry, consuming entire novels of poetry in hours, or less, and writing all my favorite lines and images.
It is a gluttonous abuse of reading speed that ill-considers the delicate work spent in craft. My apologies, artists. I must consume. I constantly feel as though I'm running shy on time, as though I must capture every adventure, every moment, and drag them deep into my soul.
I have a friend who learned countless orchestral instruments, hoping to compose. He said that most, many of the greatest composers died young, and he understood why. It is the same with me. I understand the drag of perfection, the standard against which I compete and never shall beat. And I understand how far I must travel. I'm running a race where every other entrant started hours before me. How will I ever catch up? I'll never stop.
Everyone might write better yet, might think, see, intuit, understand better now. But not forever, not for long. It is almost my time to compose.