Desire

Nothing is more difficult than patience. This afternoon I ran into an old acquaintance with whom I associate springtime, and luminous evenings, and warm conversations that fool me into believing, briefly, that my first dream had NOT died - my dream that poetry holds everything which makes life worth living! Through one dinner span only, we got along like two firecrackers: telling stories, laughing, discussing books, and enjoying beauty. But strange to say, by our second meeting, that delightful magic was deader than dead. Perhaps he knew what had changed; I never did. Instead, I continued to associate him with the spring, my first impression. When I saw him again today, it was winter - so monotonously cold that I found it hard even to imagine being warm again, and not frumpy. As we chitchatted, I smothered something inside me, just a little.

It's not painful or infuriating, but it wears you out gradually. Desire is like waiting for a phone call or email that you know will surely come, though you don't know when. It might be today, it might be three weeks from now. I know, because I've walked through this past week waiting for that one or two or five messages which I'm expecting, waking up in the morning to check my email, coming home after class to check my answering machine. And each time, I try to snuff out that excited element, tell myself that I'm overly blessed as it is, and be patient. It makes me feel small and childish, because I do it having no other choice. Also, I'm not good at it.

I had thought today might be a big day. (It wasn't.)