Insatisitirepistemania (noun)

I’m a writer. I paint landscapes of worlds unseen on blank pages, with finite words and insufficient punctuation. I break chains of complacency. I push boundaries to wreak havoc on monotony. I burn bridges and invent new structures to carry and connect us. I build houses for new language to dwell. And I throttle diction beyond sight, into oblivion. It’s intoxicating, yet daunting. What if words to articulate the inexplicable never emerge in me?

I'm also a scientist. And, contrary to popular belief, I’m in constant search of questions, not answers. Answers don’t sate me. I’m fulfilled by what I don’t know. I marvel at the next undiscovered phenomena–the exuberance of anomaly. Who knows?

When I embrace these ideas, People think I've reached insanity. Because, I faithfully lock myself away, for hours and days, and drown myself in possibility. I free myself to become a vessel for infinite. When I ignore the calling of indoctrination, however, I teeter on the brink of madness. This madness is like a vampire's thirst. Saliva drips down my chin. My irises erase. At which point, thoughts are thoughtless, unless I feed.

If I don’t eat. I’d faint. I’d starve. I’d be insufferably consumed from the inside out. And like a beast, I’d lose my sense of animation. Creatures weren’t meant for captivity. They were meant for their wing span to fan the clouds, to run, to tread in deep waters. We, like animals, are meant to graze, to hunt, to live. Indulge in insatisitirepistemania.