I woke up this morning with the itch to be going somewhere fast. The kind of need that propels you out of bed, makes you do fifty situps before you've even gotten dressed. What, you've never had that itch? Huffing out breath and watching the stars glimmer though a crystalline ceiling? Can't bother to shower because the morning might be over by the time you hit the stairs to get out of the house? The feeling that life is so big that you have to hit it at a dead run, so that even if you crash and burn at least you're going to be spreading your atoms out all over the place, so you get to experience even that last moment all the way down to the core of your being?

I have days like that all the time. I haven't been able to breathe properly since I got up: the air is too thick and I'm too slow, but if I don't stop, if I don't stop pushing my way forward, I'll make it through. I'm looking outside now, to choose a direction to point myself in--

And the stairs are made of light today, and my castle's in the air.


(Brought to you courtesy of the First Annual LJ Rabbit Hole Day.)