I just heard you laugh. It was not aroused by me. No.
For the marrying of decibels and vibrations was brought forth by something mysterious, something foreign.
Something that I have no fucking clue how to even begin to find productivity, or passion or even the smallest amount of entertainment in…
But, this isn’t about your masculine affinity to a football dream world. This is about the noises you make when you do it. This is about the feeling that fills the room when you start giggling at your own wittiness and “shit talking” with the other boys.
And perhaps, I have just had an epiphany on love. The depths that it can go, where it can awaken the deepest, darkest cracks in your soul.
The insignifigant moments that bring out euphoria in a lover can stir something so utterly profound in the counterpart.
I am awake. I am fucking awake.
For the laughter of the others who filled the moments before these, rushed past my eardrums. The ones I can remember…filled me with annoyance.
I am not Shakespeare but this moment…I’ll remember it like a first kiss.
And maybe that’s the reward. Being a writer. You cannot help but surrender to moments that aren’t even yours. You cannot say no to the door that is opened in your soul when the knock punches you in the chest. You can’t help but try and find some meaning in it.
But really, fucking fantasy football?