The Inflammation of Anticipation


I’m at the end of long corridor, tall doors lining each side, each another portal to another avenue in my current life.


They all gently move; some swaying delicately in and out, some perfectly quiet and still and others bulging and pounding heavily, waiting for something to burst out...screaming for attention...begging to be yanked open.


Yours is among those. It’s loud and overbearing...not always but often enough to not ignore. Everything in me is willing me not to open it, but no matter how much I try to focus on every other door, yours won’t keep quiet.


And I know. I know that even if I did pull it back open and make the pounding stop, it wouldn’t satiate my curiosity or desire. It would only make things worse. The culprit behind the door wouldn’t be some grand surprise to appease my thoughts of longing and missing you.


All I’d open to is a big puff of smoke, mocking me for not letting myself ignore the pounding and bulging. A whole lot of nothing I’ve built up in my head.


My mind toying again with my boundless imagination. Another case of inflammation of anticipation.