Desire is the same as yearning. It rises from the heart and gathers in the soul. In life we never say many things we ought to say. There are certain zones of heart and mind that are too sacrosanct to be laid bare, perhaps. Often enough we wait an entire lifetime to realize a little desire only to realize it was not after all that tough. There are occasional obstacles. How often do we lay awake until small hours in the morning to hear the birds chirp, only to sleep at dawn. Whatsoever that be within us that feels, thinks, desires, and animates, is something celestial, divine, and, consequently, imperishable!
I must confess: I like my desires. I carry some images home to stay awake with. I think there is nothing wrong in me except, perhaps, my imagination. It runs too far, too wide, too unbridled, too luxuriant, too raving. It takes me to the most unchartered of the territories, to forbidden frats, to old abandoned churches, to the strums of a thousand guitars, to melancholic operas, to ancient alleys. To unbroken time. I hold a flocculent hand. If you ask me whose hand, I won’t answer. Not because I am afraid. I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate us.
I desire to be an enthusiast, never dogmatic. To be full of ideas and good humor. I desire to walk holding that hand on a heavy snowy morning, when the city looks like a gigantic Christmas card. I desire to sit near the fireplace looking at the most winsome eyes in the world. Eyes that promise intimacy. And say nothing. To let the silence sit in one corner and do the talking. I desire to make love on a solitary deck, under the stars with the soft fragrant breeze cooling our nakedness. The feeling is unsettling but an exact desire.
I know I will live my desires. I can wait. Albeit not too patient, I have reconciled to the idea of tarrying. Sometimes the shade of melody, having hovered for days on the edge of hearing, unfolds and blessedly reveals itself. That is when the desires come true.