"On, on I go!--(open doors of time! open hospital doors!)"

Many things happening, concomitants and mind blowers.
I’m writing again. Professionally. An opera, with grant and legal obligations.
I’m fucking again. Dismissively. Some people, no bonds, no sleeping together, no next morning.
I’m improving again. Emotionally. A tiny person, with huge meaning and one of the best friendships of the world to offer.
I’m hurting again. Unreasonably. A silly, selfish pain, merged to my best and truthful wishes of happiness.
It’s an urge to find what I want, but still don’t know what it is. It’s an urge to find what I know, but is all over the way. It’s an urge to consume and burn myself to the ground in a passion, any passion, a person, a thing. It’s an urge to find a path, a place, a doing.
Things, many things, happening. And me, still full of urgings, with no drawer, no closet, no shoebox to keep them.
Me, happening inside, several times, urgent.

PS: The title is from a poem by Walt Whitman, Captain, my Captain, beloved poet, train out of the tracks, wandering boat like me, and a wonderful door kicker.