A Love Letter

Fear. And power. Damn them both. Damn their blooming fascist hides. I do not want to be so controlled. I shall not be so controlled. I will fight myself tooth and nail, grit and claw, and prod and poke and worry away until I am fearless.

I will be fearless.

And I will make my daydreams real. And I will gaze and gaze and gaze until I fall asleep. And I will love every second of every improbably romantic thought because I know it is True.

The fear is on the surface.

And so the picture of two children playing on a windswept beach, running and flying, smiles open wide, will cling and even (even) be cherished.

The parallel lines which have bumbled through the past quarter of a century or so are insisting that I look them in the eye; they dance in front of me, sticking their tongues out, thumbing their noses, whispering: "It's all just been for this. Just for this."

Fear.

Because how can that be true? Or even real?

Isn't that what everyone always wanted?

Including me?

Yes?

Yes.

And nobody has ever felt this. And nobody ever will.