I want to be a nice guy, flower-bringer, keeper of pens and candy, love and smiles.
I want to drive without screaming, to wait without scheming someone's demise, to float high above the clouds without dreaming of being somewhere else.
But it's hard, you see, to speak bureaucratic, to see through the static, to laugh and wave as though life is a turkey day parade.
Because of you. You, and we and they; the wrinkles in our characters that push us away. The chaos and control, the IEDs and "low food security," how I wish I knew why we came to this place, this sticky web we weave, snaring each other with our needs.
But little things mean a lot; the flowers, the pens and candy, the open doors and open lanes on the road ahead, each gesture a brick, smashing through those glass walls we build around ourselves, until it all comes crashing down.