Another day, and I’m at home, my beautiful home, the place I’ve arrived at, after so many years. I say arrived, because there isn’t anywhere else to go. At thirty-seven, all I want is to sit with a glass of good red wine in the presence of people who have nothing left to prove. An oakwood fire doesn’t hurt, logs crackling in the fire pit, kids running loose in the back yard while the desert city begins its long slow journey into dreamland.
A sweet dream for a city. A sweet dream for these people who still care, who get up every day and go to work, knowing as they do that the plan is outdated, that the goals don’t fit any more, and that the whole damn situation is a far cry from where it ought to be.
A dream for a country, waking up from its dream.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment