That crazed girl improvising her music.
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,
Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.
No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, "O sea-starved, hungry sea."

A Crazed Girl -- William Butler Yeats

My relationship with Yeats is tenuous, one moment I hate him for his weak syntactic delivery, or for trying to hard, and the next second he captures what I've been dreaming of better than I ever could...

...And so, of course,I hate him for it. ;)

[sigh] Yeats and fairies and fairies and yeats, I think my dream this crisp afternoon is to live out my story as a character in Yeat's dreams.

That crazed girl, she used to be me. Unintelligible to the stock-market-hungry denizens of the private school that I was subjected to, but beautiful to anyone who knew how to ride hard, ride fast.

I once knew how to ride hard, ride fast.
When I screamed out my dreams, they were supposed to last.

I wonder where they've gotten to...

I want to run to where the wild things live. I want to throw up my hands and grab your wrists and go tumbling down some random grassy knoll.

I want to walk with my back straight as though I know that I am stronger than the magazine covers that pepper my eyes, I want every morning to be a momentous surprise of astonishing new games that I've learned to play with the dragons in the clouds.

I don't want to walk to work, wearing make-up like a shroud, my once violet curls now sedately covering the whorls of silver wound in my chain-gang ears.

I never understood fear until I started planning for the future.

Now I have to remind myself that I'm not afraid, over and over and over again, when I sit in John or Jason's car.

I have to remind myself that the pattern of this monotonous toil has to break, because eventually my sweat will become a river deep enough to glory in.

Or something like that.

My deepest wish right now is to let the gypsy out again.

What's your deepest wish?

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