It is not lost on me that I am a tumultuous soul seeking quiet in the dead center of a sprawling city. I yearn for solitude and yet share a building with strangers. On the other sides of these superficial walls, life is loudly transpiring. Celebrations, mournings, professions of the heart. And when I step outside, even the night air doesn’t lie still. No matter the time of day or night, I bear witness to a percussion of movement. The menagerie of cars and trucks, passersby, the settling of metropolis, blends into an almost melodic cacophony. The city attempts to sing me to sleep with its tender ballads and yet all I seek is quiet.
It is not lost of me that I’m a fragile being in a constant state of flux and on a ceaseless journey for peace. My supple nature doesn’t take kindly to bending. It finds the shape that brings it comfort and doesn’t surrender it easily. And yet it uncharacteristically calls for challenging and rare finds. All that satiates it will demand its flexibility. And so my heart cries out for what it has not obtained and against what it will cost to procure it. What is this wild urge I have, to light up a fragile world with my fast burning fire? How long have I had this impulse to kick a hornet’s nest?
Life truly is one long irony. One long torturous, fruitless, taxing irony. Just the way we like it. If the price isn’t steep, we assume it’s not worth having. If there isn’t a carrot ever dangling before us, we assume proceeding is pointless. It colors our life with despair and purpose. It is our defining nature and our dearest weakness.