Secret Pop

Nov 15, 2002

I've got a sugar brioche, and I'm not afraid to use it.

I wish I hadn't been so tired today. I would have felt many more things. Like that strange sensation of coming home to a city you were never sure was your home. That rare relief of dropping your things on the dining room floor and sinking into a chair and being so very grateful to be back where you started. I wanted more sensation. I wanted the fireplace to burn hotter. I wanted to feel my skin stinging in its heat. I wanted more evidence that I'm still here. That my heart sill beats. That I am a living creature. I expect that gnawing urge will remain until tomorrow when I will pursue its indulgence anew.

I don't believe in magic in the traditional sense. Neither witches with cauldrons nor fancily-dressed gents with disappearing rabbits and endless ropes of colored scarves tied together. But I do believe in another sort of magic. A magic born of firing synapses and sharp intakes of breath. The magic of that moment when you say, "Yes! That's it exactly." The magic of a perfect song. The magic of likeness of mind. The magic of understanding. That unseverable connection of commiseration and unique but shared reasoning. I am lucky. I get to take a dip in that sort of magic more often than most. But I am greedy. I would like to swim in it constantly. I don't think that's to be had. Yet.

I don't want much of tomorrow. But that's just me talking today.

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