Sans Cynicism

There's a desk that's four feet wide in a building nineteen stories high. It's an ordinary desk, cherry wood, perhaps, and it stands solemnly straight in spite of a series of scratches hidden beneath mounds of paperwork. It's a desk that's no stranger to shifting tides, to erosion by scrutiny, to silent executions and undignified loyalty. It's a desk that knows not to ask questions.

There's a door between passion and politics that's never quite open and never quite shut. There's a gust of inspiration that falters when moods swing. There's the resonant rejoicing of children falling in love with their moment of sanctity. There's the stillness after.

I watch people find themselves over-saturated with dreams - nearing toxicity. They're losing themselves in the semantics behind causes. I watch their eyes narrow with suspicion when I don't follow suit and drink coffee with Rabbis. I watch them doubt.

I spent a decade of my life caught up in phases and in parts, writing halves of novels and recording halves of songs. I've feigned and started friendships that I've cast away too soon, embracing anyone with whom I knew I wouldn't fall in love.

And then comes spring - a wild breath of seasonal spinning, a rush that shoots through your fingertips and jolts you into being - and you realize that you're ready to be woken and revealed.

And you realize that forevers only frighten those who do not want them.
And you realize that you want them now.

And you close your eyes
And you hold your breath.

And you wait.