I want to be mad…

I don’t want to be the good, smart, articulate, sensible author.
I want to be mad; I want to be the deep consuming madness that comes with being a genius and I want to fall in the words of the sentences formed by dots of letters
And I never want to be found.
I want to drown and drown and be more alive than I ever was when I was breathing light air than terrifying,  burdening beautiful words.
I want to cry tears that fall from my eyes and pool into a life of their own, so utterly beautiful that even the coldest of hearts will flower the warmest of blooms.
I want to be consumed by words the way lovers wish to lose themselves in each other only to find themselves together.
I want my emotions and words to blend so deep, they form into ropes of sentences that wrap themselves around the hearts of the people they reach, so tightly that without them existence would seem baseless.
I don’t want to be a good author. ..
I want to be mad.


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