desireearmfeldt

He’s always felt too much, shouted too loudly, cried too easily, wanted too deeply.  He fought through adolescence like a swamp, learning to dazzle with his verbal dexterity, his erudition, his charm.  Keep your eyes on my hands, let my patter lull you.  Don’t look into my eyes or you might spy the monster behind the curtain.  He’d almost bought his own act.  Believed that the tempest and turmoil flowed from the text into himself, when of course it was the other way around all along and all it took was one little tap in just the right spot to shatter the walls that kept the monsters from pouring from his eyes and lips, thrashing his limbs in ecstasy/pain drowning/dancing under the lunatic moon that shines all the time now, even when his eyes are squeezed shut.  Can't contain the Mad Rumpus nor control it nor perform it -- it's out in the world now, breaking glass and drawing blood and screaming and no fun at all -- but it's in him too, so he can't outrun it.  All he can do is huddle in the dark, whispering the words, the text, the only thing that all the wildness within him cannot rip to shreds nor burn to ashes. . .

. . .Two of these fellows you must know and own; this thing of darkness I acknowledge mine. . .