Mirage

I've decided to come to terms with the idea that I have the wonderfully cynical view that my life has become something of a desert. Yes, in the middle of frigid, snow-covered Carlisle, PA I'm thinking of the achingly hot sand, boiling sun, and waves of torturous heat stretching to the horizon. So, no there isn't a nostalgic smile of warmth on my face when considering these thoughts. But as much as I hate the sun and the sand and the heat; I expect it. This is, after all, the desert. It's pretty transparent about the whole sand thing. The part that really gets me are the oases, or seeming oases, these phantoms of relief. Because what could be worse than reaching for cool water only to grab a handful of scalding sand.

After spending a good amount of time here in the desert you even come to expect these mirages. And, one would assume, with this expectation comes the loss of genuine hope. Oddly, this is not really the case. With every distant glimmer, every sparkling drop of this apparition is a fundamental, primal hope that stirs in my chest. In the most recognized place of hopelessness there still lives in me the elevated heart beat of hope that yearns for "This time, this time for sure it is real." Only to come of no avail. So the question is, when does this unceasing hope lose itself and become only crazed desperation? Am I yet a wild man staggering through the desert with outstretched arms plunging into the sand around him, searching for what is not there, what will never be there? I pray that there be something other than desperation, but with every mirage it seems unlikely. At the sight of clear refreshment I dive in, with hope perhaps, but probably desperation beating in my chest. With every glance, every step "This time , this time for sure" my heart beats, as my mind already knows "Not this one, there is no water." And so I walk endless in sun and sand, parched and waiting, hoping without hope.