I Want

Faint voices echo from far off, people gossiping, laughing, chatting. A soft, almost inaudible hum drifts across the tops of the cubicles, but even its barely audible keening cannot penetrate my numbness. Strange. The cubicle walls shouldn’t hold out noise– they don’t, really– but it all seems so faraway, nonetheless. Suddenly I want to get up, to wander away, to find a window and press my nose against its icy slickness. I want to stare out, past the newly repaved parking lot to the grove of trees just beyond. I want to watch the trees– which stand tall and bare in the wintery breeze– as their boughs whip and sway and beckon to me beneath a sky of murky grey. Come out, the trees would invite. Come out and feel. And I want nothing more than to run outside into the cold and the colorless, and dance and whip and cut loose in the wind. I want to catch the sudden shaft of sunlight that shoots through the branches as the sun wanders out– only momentarily!– from behind darkened, stormy clouds. I want the light to brighten up the washed-out, grey, desolately drained of color dullness of my view. I want to see and sigh and dream.

I want, I want, I want…

I want to feel.