When I was younger I lived and loved with expectation. The older I get the more pervasive both time and expecting get.
I assume I'm in control of my emotions, but my longing is purely biological.
At 29, in a world that needs no children, I want love, desperately, as air. I thought this exaggeration of feeling was natural and pure, springing effortlessly from the butterflies that are nerves, a signal of certainty, a calling of worth.
I believed the pangs, the pulls and the smiles reserved for what I saw in the mirror. I acted swiftly with naive gaiety thinking if truth holds no loss will bear. If truth holds? What truth?
Meandering through time, through ages predefined, the stages of man out of my hands, can I skip ahead to that place when there is no mountain, no purpose, no love? When there is just air and my cracked coffee mug.
My gut feeling is to forget all feelings by remembering them out loud.
In freedom I fall in love with the thought of you, the thought of want, the ability to create a future I've already lived and lost.