I get disgusted with it sometimes

because it's so tiresomely sentimental,

and day-dreamingly maudlin,

so childishly

unrealistic,

and not useful at all, but

it keeps embedding itself more firmly

every year,

this ludicrous notion

that if all those brought into this world

today

and yesterday

and 3,000 yesterdays ago

could only know what it's like to go to bed

and not be afraid

or wracked with tears,

and to know the gentle touch

of a love that surpasses all

understanding

every day

from those who have never forgotten what it was like

to be one of them,

then I could finally go to bed

and not be afraid or be in despair

either.

Hopeless.

So why do I sense that when I am in the last half-perceived

flickering

of my consciousness

that it will still be calling out to me

and it will still be right?

[Revised 12/28/07]