There's this infected nerve I keep picking at
It's full of empty hours of empty entertainment
And the dull sense something's wrong
It's full of unnecessary thoughts on things that don't matter
Because they pertain too much to this world and not the one I should be seeking
 
There's this terrible feeling that I'm neglecting something
And I don't even know what to call it
Things like 'my calling' or 'my destiny' don't quite fit the description
Seeing how simple things like those can be changed
 
What if I neglect it for too long at a time, and it just dies?
Every time it gets too much, I manage to muster that dawn-grey feeling
The one that calmly tells me this is what I have to do
Because that's what needs to be done
 
So every time I beat back lethargy, and feel satisfied, and more connected to the feeling
To serenity
But every time it feels like it was harder, like I took too long to do it
Like next time I might falter or stumble, like I might
Just
Break
Down
And never rise again, another lifeless husk in a graveyard of ideals
 
And next time I just
Won't mean a damn thing
To anybody at all
Not to mention myself
 
It hurts every time I pick at the nerve, it feels sick
But at the same time it feels terribly right
I need to keep myself awake enough to gain meaning
To cross the final hill after which nothing matters
If I just leave the nerve alone and let it heal, it'll grow
And grow
And grow
Until there's no more room for meaning in me
And I'll have to preemptively dispose of myself
The experiment has failed, the subject is normal
 
I have to keep picking at it, clawing desperately in a fit of panic
That rises every time the option of failure rises
My bloodied hands are all I have
So I'll just keep it from growing
Snap at it every time it tries to encroach on things that matter
 
One day, though
And I say that fully aware of how cliche this "one day" is
One day I'll venture out to seek the flame
And when I find it, I will burn the nerve until it's gone
I will either survive and continue on, cauterized
Or be consumed by the flame, consumed by travel, consumed by failure
 
Do, or die. That is the directive.