There is nothing so much debilitating as the perception of acute defeat. The automatic response of the body is to slouch over and capsize; heave forward into an the abyss and prepare for the final, absolute blow. It's inevitable. To prepare is to expect; to expect is to welcome. It's enough to gather forces and train. The mind slips into regimen and duty, reports for routine battle. But to harness sentiment is harder. To convey belief the hardest. You cannot win a battle with half-beliefs nor half-truths. Wars require conviction.

January began quietly, sleepily, in an awkward oblivion. Relatively untangled, slyly moving past the old and grasping for the new. The days marched on. A part of me was mad with rage and desire, feverishly plotting and adjusting, tapping my fingers on the surface waiting for the right crack to nudge into a break. The other part of me knew my prospects were dismal, (always have been) and thought it wise to not think better of myself. At least not to assume that past the episodes of drunken fervor and reckless ardor, that the emotional impact would scarce last longer than the orgasm. I was, without reason, a hopeless optimist. Deep down, I wanted, at the very least, to be proven wrong.

But February rushed by and I sat next to a window at my desk, the glass pane emanating coldness down my spine, wrapped in a sweater, often staring at the cloudless, austere blue sky. Phone silent. A rose from my father on the 14th and chocolates from my co-workers. There was no sense of disappointment maybe even a hint of surprise that I had even received anything. The rest of the month passed on quickly and the only person that I dared befriend was my elderly Chinese co-worker, "Hark".

I wanted him. Very simply. Very urgently. But I am at the age where maybe, I stop to wonder, I might ever ask for more. More than these late night trysts. More than just a temporary pleasure.

Do I deserve it? I brace myself. Do I receive? I calm myself. There is nothing clean about this feeling.

March is still cold. Dry winters breed quick ashes. My skin stretched taut, my joints ache. My heart is full and has been let down far too many times. I have no sense of direction. I want to let it rest. I want it to be taken. I want to be noticed.