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.