We have jobs. We pay our bills. And we dream.

We give our workday lives all they ask of us. We give them our hours. We give them the best of our thinking and the endless fruits of our experience. We give them the collected expertise of years, and we hope somebody listens. We give them ourselves.

Except for our souls. And our hearts.

Those we keep. Those we save. For the thing we love.

It is a love that we shelter with our bodies and try to keep burning—that challenged, flickering thing; the fragile, cooling ember that, exhausted and brain-weary, we run home to breathe back to life.

We run, we do not walk, to that place, that quiet, that love, that hope. Because, for a time, unassailed, that is the place that belongs to us and to no one else. The seat in the silence. In the Alone. We speak into the quiet and ask for nothing. We make castles and we fly.

It is the one thing that makes the rest of it bearable. It is the only thing that ever has.

 

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