Nugget

Book in Hand: The Night Dance
Song in Mind: The Sundays

There is this little baby hope, this flowering bud, this hesitant firecracker that is surging inside my heart. I do not name it, I hide from it, I place it far away where my mind cannot reach because I cannot hope, I cannot want, I cannot dream of it.

All I know is that I cannot know it. To presume would be to murder myself. It would kill me to hope and not have it. It would be like falling in love in a romance fated to remain unrequited (haven't I had enough of that?). It would be like blossoming into a garden and have a storm ravage me. It would be like opening your arms to an embrace and meeting cold air as you close it. It would be like a kiss that vanishes before it reaches my lips.

It's so small and fragile. Let it remain tiny. Let it remain inconsequential. Let it remain anonymous. Just pity, what a pity, my heart feels it would burst with the enormity of it. The vastness of my longing. The cavernous desire. Something so big that it looms over me, and yet I choose to see just a nugget of it. So that I can swallow it, cover it with the fear of never having it. Let the gold drown in the grey areas of my soul.

Oh, watch us, dear Lord, those who wake, or watch, or weep tonight, and give Thine angels charge over those who dream and sleep.

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