Without being too specific, I've spent the past few weeks expecting Something To Happen, or at least living in the hope that Something Will Happen. It is a condition comparable perhaps only to that special tingle in the pit of the stomach engendered by knowing one is about to hop into bed with a new person.
A better analogy would be to think of lying down on the bank of a stream and reaching, really stetching out, with one arm over the water to capture a twig that is floating by. It is possible to brush the twig with one's fingertips, but a sudden jink in the current caused by some unseen rock on the bed of the stream carries it away before it can be grasped.
The frustration is exquisite, and the haring down the bank looking for another opportunity to grab at the twig is undignified. Additionally, the rapidly deflationary process of going from thinking Something Will Happen to believing that Nothing Will Happen is a sound punishment for allowing hopes to be built up, for thinking that, for once, I was holding the reins etc etc etc. Fool, boy. Fool, fool, fool.
And so we return to the state of mind where the background constant is the feeling that it is better to die on one's feet than to live on one's knees but the demands of real life make it necessary to cleave to the latter.
Or maybe not, because - and this is the really awkward bit - I'm still not actually sure What Will Happen, just pretty certain.
