The desire for perfection is constantly vying itself, unable to be controlled and consciously stopped. Though such high expectations do more harm than good, for they seem to act as shackles as I try freeing myself from such an irony. These desires, these beautiful desires, are meant to be an excellent planning tool for achieving distant goals. As distant as these goals may seem, a carefully planned and well executed set of directives will make such a goal become a reality. Though such optimism is exactly the source of all pessimism, of all unrequited expectations.
Subtleties of an interaction are engraved in my memory. These slight slivers of detail are the minute slices of time I treasure most dearly. Yet, the desire to attain these sweet, soothing slivers make such an attempt almost impossible. I become almost entirely fixated on such a desire: the desire to recreate these slices of time. Perhaps it is simply a matter of time before these slices manifest, though my impatience vexes over such a reality. The fluidity of time is inevitably true. I will look forward to the day of that beautiful sound, that beautiful smell, and that beautiful smile, but the sorrows of waiting are only momentarily satisfied, for time continues to flow, even after the brief moments of ecstasy. Then I hope, I hope for time to skip along until the slice of my desire. Then I hope again, I hope for time to become increasingly viscous as I experience the joys of that particular slice. Though repeated attempts at recreating such slices offer nothing but desperation.
“I trek towards the beckoning light, only to doubt its presence”
My daily haze is illuminated by these slivers of time. Ah, those seconds, those precious seconds, as precious as a jewel perched on top of a dove, those seconds I desire so passionately, those seconds over which I lose sleep. My mind is thinking of these slivers with astonishing constancy. These slivers slice through my thoughts with steadfast precision, cutting every former mental process I have had. Though I taste the sweetness in the blood from this pain, I lust for the warmth of my own sorrows dripping over my heart. It is of human nature, I tell myself, but I am not convinced. My constant fixation is of utter irregularity, coupled with the void over which I dangle.
Perhaps these expectations should be rid of. Though, what will I live for if I void my life of such expectations? Perhaps these expectations are much too bloated and fantastical, so saturated with optimism that it becomes increasingly toxic. Though how can I gain a sense of substance in life without such hopes? These hopes, despite the pain they bring, are what gives my life meaning. An entirely new realm of devotion can be discovered through my unwieldy expectations. The monotonous nature of my life becomes infinitely richer through these expectations. It is just not possible. To have such expectations removed is not possible.
Though with such expectations, I can perhaps attempt what I define as hopeless hope. The constant thoughts are the artificial mind-created mirror images of these slivers of time. With difficultly I can convince myself that these hopes are inevitably not possible, in other words, hopeless. In a sense, this offers me a sense of expectation, an expectation in that my hopes will never become a reality. The impossibility of these hopes is exactly the reason why such thoughts are called “hopes”.
“Because what’s worse than knowing you want something, besides knowing you can never have it?.” – James Patterson