Not so long ago I was thinking that it was a shame I no longer looked forward. That I didn’t experience that feeling I used to get before Christmas. I didn’t even really know what I missed, but instead had some vague recollection of a feeling. The fire of anticipation was missing.
What happened to desire? Longing? As I grew up, everything was within reach and anticipation was no longer an obstacle. When did anticipation become an obstacle? When did goals become mere trinkets?
Recently that feeling returned. It snuck in ever so quietly and without announcing itself. But, just now, it wrapped itself around me, brushed away the cobwebs and made itself at home.
I’d forgotten what it feels like to want something so badly it physically hurts. To want it, but to respect it—a respect so deep I am willing to test myself, restrain myself, cultivate a patience and trust that were oddly familiar as a child, but foreign as an adult.
And I will do this because I know without the slightest doubt that I am facing something that I will never have words to describe. I trust it because it is instinct and pure instinct supersedes the logic that has bogged me down.
I trust it because I know that this… this is the gift in the beautiful box under the tree that I will lose myself to—the one thing I have never named.
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