Flirts

The year races to its end. What year? Too much abandoned hope, too much numerology by the wayside, do we carry dreams anymore? The weather coasts in anomaly, the statistics speak in horror, you no longer flinch at the alarms. Your mother says you sound happy, and you don't know how to explain the peace that resides in you, it looks misplaced in its bright ignorance. I read a new story and feel the oxygen sink into my lungs at last. A year ends but another begins with the same truths you've carried always. Write, write, write, the theme is Joy, the theme is do you remember how once there was a wonder, you've been tired, yes, 

but you are not tired anymore. 

We do not carry dreams,
perhaps.

They carry us.