Possibilities are endless in my
lifetime. I could do anything, I could accomplish any goal. There are some times though, when you realize that something will
never happen, and you are content with that fact. At least, as content as you can be.
I have already
sown my wild oats and I am far past the stage of longingly staring at waiters and
record store clerks with dewy eyes. I am in love, and I am happy about it. It is a real and a good love, a
solid sort of thing with lots of laughing and spraying water. This is
tangible, this is life. This is the feeling of the sun on my
shoulders, the smooth underside of leaves, gravel crunching under my
Converse. Off on the other side of the computer screen, words reach out like ghostly fingers at the
nape of my neck. The prose, the life, the intensity and the honesty pulls at my attention.
But I am already in
love. The words are all black on white, and after I've ingested them they are gone. Accompanying pictures would be unnecessary, and would only prolong the fade.
Just because it fades doesn't make it any less real. The fact that I will never pursue this
possibility doesn't make it any less of a possibility. There is just the strangely
melancholy feeling of knowing that there might have been something more, if I wasn't already in love - and the object of my
affection was more than just a
beautiful tangle of words.