I cross my fingers. Pray I can deliver, on a narrative I’ve written.
High expectations never intimidated me. Like running at an altitude; I’ve trained myself to breathe rarified air.
No one’s expectations could ever be higher. No push stronger. No external fire burning hotter than the one that keeps me warm during the winter.
Because there’s winter in the desert. Cold winds and constant thirst. Sweeping sand storms and little vision. Periods of constant desire.
Fire has no patience. Burning until all oxygen and fuel is ash. Just waiting for a flicker to meet with gas.
Bright an breaking windows. Knocking me to my feet. It must have been an explosion that first started the earth spinning. And now the night and day is our most basic rhythm.
I want to do something like that.