Jubilation

is such a fleeting thing.

As the hot drips cease to plague my foundation and the shining light of my frolicking dream flashes again brightly, yet in the distance, I again see the oppression of these trenches I've dug. Waiting quietly for lightning to again strike at my whole being, these trenches fill steadily with a wet population of demons, crawling in from behind the darkness and brave like stocky little hellhogs.
This patience I've developed is definitely (hopefully not) chewing away at whatever this dream may yet hold.
Whatever dreams may yet come.
Whatever face may yet smile back at me in whatever way.
Whatever further jubilation may yet heal.

My good friend, my unshakable, clenched friend shall have no soft words for any of this. This procession of life with little warmth upon my chest is slowly growing old (as you, and as well as I, become). Before I grab the future by the balls and refuse to ever release, my hands are locked onto the lapels of the present and no words pass my lips, no tears clean my eyes...

Again reminded of the hardest revulsion I have ever at once felt and the lesson that it carried in it's terrible arms: Anyone who ever tells you that tomorrow never comes is a fuck and a coward with no respect for the passage of time and all of it's known and untold glories. Tomorrow has and will always come regardless of how our senses can ever (fail to?) perceive it's dawn.
This all cleared the path for more: your arms are only so long, your eyes are only so sharp, your heart only so big.
There are worse things.