There are so many syllables in that word that in the amount of time it takes to say it, maybe something will change.
I keep waiting for it.
Wise people have advised that to awaken creativity, it is necessary to break with routine, play with children, take the bus, let possibility in.
But what if that’s the only thing you have? The chance that something could happen. You stay open, unattached, uncommitted. Scattered and alone, watching the eyes of each passerby to see if they are the one. Today you will meet your savior, your mentor, your lover.
Is it a societal phenomenon? Can it explained by post-modernity or consumerism or is it simply the living in Los Angeles where everyone is well schooled in dreams?
The days come and go. Shadows, and darkness, and sunlight, and shadows again. He is not coming, you realize. He will never come.
All the strangers you’ve met on Twitter, at the bar, in the airport, at the coffee shop. They’re just whispers, and now they have long since passed. What’s left of this hope then, but the naive foolishness of it?
There’s only a hole now, where the possibility used to be.