Blank.

The world quietly disappoints most, I think, when it comes to the lack of glamour and drama in what we look forward to on a Monday morning. It's the sort of thought that makes you stare vacantly at roadsigns or those massive alien power transformers, from a clear complicated black to a grey haze in the distance and then heave your chest slowly and let a sigh escape only to have yourself turn unconsciously back to where you really are.

It's not like we all want to be movie stars or musicians, or even their PAs, but nostalgia plays in your head with film grain, and slow-mos, and diffused glows. It's the sinful escape of a part of you that wants to be bigger than your body.

And then it applies to everything else. You aren't angered or any emotion so strong in sound or might, it's dreamy dismay. You probably never even wanted to be a movie star, perhaps an air force pilot or truck driver or just wanted to pull through a masters degree in something average and commonplace, most conventional, normal and yet even now, there lies a reluctant sigh. Not in what could have been, but really, in what is and much to your calm unease, in what always will be.

There stands only one thing in between the foreboding silence and quiet appreciation (and often, relief in what, thankfully, still is). And that, I find, is love. And its opposition.

Love brings in all that is perhaps missing. Sure, it still lies in eyes of the beholder. The drama of romance, the passion of yearning is often lost on those that refuse to want to see it. But it seeps in through the cracks in moments of introspection. Stand and stare. Breathe. Deep. Take a bite out of it all and you probably find yourself in appreciation, smiling, glowing, even. The eyes won't lie.

Hate, even, is a strong, overpowering emotion in its many degrees. I think people refuse to admit to hate. Diplomacy closes a door, struggles against it, like shoulder on wood thudding against intermittent forces of expression. And hate is so strong a word. We don't want to hate. Dislike, maybe. But hate, no. I've hated. Most dearly. Senior supervisor in school. I'm most certain it took a lunge past dislike. And I don't mind it. It makes me no lesser of a person. No more of it either. I've also loved. Chunks of you and someone else, dancing in limbo till there is a mystifying imbalance persisting to see-saw through its existence. It's no form of idealism. But it is real. It isn't a sigh.