Sufi Style
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The hours between pass with the same familiar anxiety
that has rushed through your veins on occasion before.
Maybe tomorrow, you tell yourself, as you turn your
back upon the once beloved messenger which has now
become the bane of your existence--if only for the moment.
Most of the world never did keep as brisk a pace as
yourself, although, this never quite bothered you before;
at least not in the same way as it now slowly picks at
your patience in this current time of harsh unknown.
Perhaps it is because this time you have so much to lose--
not in an ostensibly tangible sense, but in a dream.
In real time, it lasted less than four hours.
In your mind, however, it has yet to cease.
And then again, maybe this is what scares you most:
the idea that all your visions; of weekend visits;
of a rendezvous in Ulaan Baatar; of a life in Amazonia;
may become aborted before they are ever given
the chance to breathe in their first breath of
cool, crisp autumn air. Each hair that passes through
your hand reminds you of another moment lost,
yet there is little else you can now do to change things.
You always suspected that yours was a charm that
could not be captured through the written word, and
now you are beginning to believe you were right.
Of course, eventually you will learn to mend the broken
dreams, much like you may have learned to mend the hole
in your left trouser pocket under the prefered situation.
Then again, maybe it will never come to that. Maybe
it is all simply a case of another Bambi: misaccentuated.