Asunder

It was madness. When the sun rose over the horizon after a long night of wistful dreams, it dawned on me that my dreams, while twisted in the maniacal way phantasms often have the reproachable habit of doing, might have a chance at reality. At once, I had something to look forward to, something that would drive the tedium of the day back into submission.

I went about my morning preparing for the inevitable and desperately wanting the time to tick by faster, to release me from the chains of boredom, to vanquish the monotony of the day. I yearn for the minutes to die, hysterically waiting for my chance to see the delusion of my dream become a tangible daring.

But the news hit me without warning and hard, ripping out my heart and stomping on it like it was a clod of dirt beneath a shoe.

I

cannot

see

him.

I stood, frozen in my conscience, every new second hitting me like a brick wall, tearing at me like downed prey. An echo of despair shot through my heart with harrowing ferocity. I felt crippled yet unable to fall to my knees. My hands shook with the pain that complements a return of blood to the extremities.

But tomorrow was another day. Something, something in the thought gave me solace. Something told me not to give into the tedium, not to harden myself with apathy for the day. The minutes, while painful, were gone once passed. And I could see the sun setting in my mind, if only to look forward to the next sunrise.