Flightless I, an earthbound wanderer; and thus is the curse of this modern day: may you be ordinary. My heart is cracked like an egg, poured out of me until I feel nothing at all there, in the vacuum of my desire. I wonder who I truly am, and I wonder where I can search for such identification. But do not think that I am in some kind of mystic pain, for what it is may be called only a kind of numbness. It is an existential yawn, I suppose. Somewhere in me, though, too far down to detect, there is a running undercurrent of faith that I know will sustain me through this drought of inspiration, the lack thereof which forces out this essay paragraph as a tirade of meaningless poetry. Perhaps all I need do is pray, and mighty forces will reengage some bootstrap process, a system restart of the soul. Or perhaps all I really need is a kick in the rear. And maybe growing up is merely how to go about doing that ourselves when someone else’s foot is not conveniently available. Yes, I think that’s all of it: I need only to get over myself.