Some nights give that validation of life slipping through our hands. Being
loved and its constant reminders can be tiring, ironically painful. That subtle
tinge of dissatisfaction with myself that I feel like a throbbing nerve as
people bid their goodbyes to me. That strange feeling of being suddenly
important to people who have known you for years. Of relationships done and
dusted, suddenly weighing down on your side. And those old unfulfilled desires
to which you are still so insignificant. Life is full of such exquisite
ironies.
Love always adorns itself in mysterious quicksands. How much of it
will remain when I slip from the pedestal of this American Dream. Of some of
it, I am sure. For the rest there is that quintessential feeling of cautious
hope that I associate so closely with all my life and the way I have spent it so
far. Thus when the weather falls I can only pray for friends to remain this way
and for the scope of that hard-to-achieve salvation.
Suddenly the unsurity of this pedestal, of being loved and revered,
appears to be humility. Perhaps this is growth.
Perhaps I wont get too carried away.
America, hoping to finding pieces of myself that would unfold greater
strength, restrain and new capabilities.
