I write that which is secret.

In my mind luminous bubbles expand and explode, but never escape from my tongue. The pressure on my temples is enormous. To speak or to not speak: that I do not know. If I open my mouth will slime dribble out? And the situation becomes like Crisco, greasy and present.

No, I cannot speak. I cannot bring myself to extract the bubbles untouched and whole. So I write that which is secret - an endeavor that speaks of itself, assuredly - and I let my fingers flow unhindered, clacking and rolling across the keys until my brain is no longer swollen and my ears no longer boil with words that threaten to trickle down my jaw and past my lips. Who can accuse me when I write? "I am art, and art is alone in being."

*

So many opportunities arise for you, yet you take none. You insist upon living in this metaphorical happyland. I can't identify with that. Why do you insist upon staying there? It's a city of Eloi and you're only knocking at the gates, always insisting, never accepting, never understanding. I sometimes wonder if there's any place for you. Not at home with the giddy, repulsed by the despairing you will wander Earth, forever.

But isn't it me, the frigid gypsy, who is supposed to be pitied?

*

I will never understand this, because I do not speak. I do not let out that which has been kept in. Except, except - I write that which is secret.

It seems you will never understand.