Cliche

Sometimes, you just want something so bad.

Sadly, the only thing you can do to get yourself closer to that something is just earnestly wanting it in your heart.

Sadder still, those kinds of wishes are the ones that make you happiest.

The unachievable things. The ones you only dream about. The ones stuck in your subconscious, forcibly repressed by all your will power, yet you feel its presence as thousands of free electrons orbiting your entire emotional space, because you know that your subconscious is stretched to its limit in explosive greed that only a human soul can carry, and your being is dripping from supersaturated yearning and is condensing onto the paper thin glass pane that is the cold logic of the thinking human.

If you press, hard enough, you can just barely taste it on the tip of your tongue. And you hear it beckon to you with the rhythm of the alarm clock ticking by your ear the cat purring at the foot of your bed, keeping your tired body wondering why it can never relax.

But there is nothing you can do to actually substantiate storm clouds. And one cannot dance with entropic unicorns. Which is why the mere thought, no the mere intuition of the thought, the unfertilized idea just craving to be born, the same thought that is slowly and painfully dying through starvation of acknowledgement, is the lonely essential fluid that is pumping through my veins.