small grains of hope sometimes explode within my chest in the most mundane of moments, like at six in the morning when i am dressed in sweatpants and still tiredly wading through dunes of reading assignments. he sleeps beside me as i read, and now and then there are spliced seconds when his foot brushes mine, and suddenly i feel – yes, this is it. this is the bubble that i need. this is the space that i want to be in, free from the oppressive heat of hostile manners, from bad news, social media, and impaired judgment (my own). occasionally he wakes up, violently ripped from the fringes of his strange dreams and begins to talk about ethereal things, and i cant help but wonder if he is made out of thin air, if at this time a little more than a year ago i embarked on this miraculous fantasy and created for myself a good thing that doesn’t actually exist. but then slowly his mystical speech begins to become more real, and familiar, and actually tangible — and i am faced with the sad truth that i am the anti midas. this is what i do, and it is unfortunately cyclical and permanent. then the small grains dissipate, and i go to sleep too.