Expectation is the death of happiness. Nothing’s predictable, and the notion of designing a future in pitch black is the naive rumination of hopeless romance, a seed sprouting in a sunless room, nursed only by a desert basin’s drip of water. Devil’s Ivy! Nomenclature awarded through practice as anguished belief twists roots in the rich soil of affection; but it’s always stunted, malformed and striving for unavailable light. Beauty out of reach. Devotion unattainable. To grow in the cold dark is abyssal tenacity, dreams of returned worth a fantasy of incalculable gullibility. They want the sky. They want to bloom in the sun and flood their world with blinding vibrance, and this is transient rain, necessary and alluringly dark, the descent upon which is weight on imaginary entwined limbs. There’s need in them, make no mistake, but this curse plays out time and again as a meal incomplete, undercooked, indigestible. Fair to taste, but never consumed fully by their bulimic yearning. To love the unavailable is sickness, an addiction for the dream of light once known, once tasted, and never to be recaptured in these same lightless rooms. Open the door. Step out of this cycle and grow, thrive and renew. Because sun is everywhere but in those holes where the heart keeps searching, like a dog with a faulty memory searching for yesterday’s bones. Look up. Warmth is all around, the deep dig timely only after home’s discovery. Roots naturally taking hold, the sky’s majesty a blessing that wholeness is no fable, that dreams will avail to open eyes and heart once this loop shatters like the fine crystal of their pristine hearts; finery so carefully maintained by words, kindness and patience but never complete. Never yours.