of You

Write something happy, she says. When you write happy things, I print them out and put them on my message board. I would love to oblige, but where is the glittering rainbow, in all this Normality?

Another voice comes down the line, says that's what we do. We endure this monotony for one instant of magic, and I suppose she is right. It just seems there was more magic to be had, previously. I refuse to believe this is age, or that was naïvite, that we are victims of insight and no more early mornings of sunrise and giggles are to be had. I refuse to believe we are too old to be blown away.

The bird cherries bloom, the trees have exploded and the air is thick with sweet smells, it is overwhelming. My heels click, click all along the quiet side-streets, Saturday night and it ends too early, too according to plan. I walk past office windows: publishers, artists, photographers, entrepreneurs. There is a life out there for the taking, and I am tempted to accept that which is easily given, but I must not.

A fire burns inside you unwilling to accept complacency and comfort. Let it burn, to the ground.
The fireworks will catch up,
eventually.