...

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I'm not the kind to covet,

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I don't desire so deeply that I tear apart without.

.

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No,

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That's not who I am.

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If anything I long.

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I long for those and that which might,

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Even for a brief moment,

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Satiate a dream.

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It's the nature of dreams to be defined by longing.

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Like a sense of hope, a longing for purpose

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Or for happiness or for possibility.

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Everybody does that.

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But like hope,

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There's the distant possibility,

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The slim chance or the 'if only',

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And than there's the stark, deafening reality.

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The world is not comprised of fairy-tales;

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It is not gray, black, white or clean.

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If anything it's muddy.

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It's sludge and sepia, it's murk and mire.

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And the light at the end of the tunnel is how people like me convince ourselves to wade through it.

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There is no end to the mud, life will always be complicated to the point of incomprehensibility

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But by rationalizing it with a dream, with a longing or with a hope,

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We affix ourselves to the sanity of absurdity 

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And avoid being swallowed by the swamp.

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Longing is a foolish practice, fools do it.

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But treading quicksand to keep from drowning,

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That certainly isn't.

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