I want to be feeble and ethereal, my presence a silent grace, like a long forgotten goddess. I want the prowess of a ****** hunter bubbling under my skin so strongly that I will burn up and create a new sun. Is it so wrong that I want to drop everything and run? I want to gorge myself on the fruit of the earth, like Persephone, and doom my heart to a half realized death. I want to starve my body of the world until I am frail and small, so I can hide my paper thin fingers in the pages of books, hoping to take root in imagined heroes that do not regret like I do and did not wait too long. I want to stay with what I know and I want to vanish into thin air. I want to be everywhere. I am a living, breathing paradox. I do not care, though my heart flutters at the idea of packing a suitcase and getting on the next flight or staying here another night. All I know for sure is this: I want to feel alive.