As of tomorrow, Winter Break is officially over. We have been cycling since the middle of December, but tomorrow the real work begins. Chance starts stims. This is when, with a sharp inhale, we hold our collective breaths and don't even think about exhaling (even if just for a moment) until after the beta.
Over the past couple of weeks, we've shared meals both at home and at local dives, gone bowling, played board games, jammed to Rock Band (you should see and hear Apollo sing Hungry Like the Wolf), and have had an impromptu sleepover.
And we've talked. A lot. Of all the things we've discussed at length, what rings most prominently is the thought that there seems to be something…something more at the root of what it is that has brought us here together in the first place. There is a mysterious, intuitive sense that we are merely gliding along on a stream, and that somewhere ahead in the unseen distance our narrow waterway will open into a vast gulf, far more open and beautiful and right than we ever could have imagined.
This surrogacy is a passage — not a destination.
It is palpable. The air is thick with ribbons of predestination, and their susurrus whispers, "Soon."
This union through surrogacy and every step thus far on this path can only be described as perfect. Though we feel this and claim it and own it, we speak of it no louder than rustling of the ribbons, lest we tempt Bad Things to reach in and snatch the gold-threaded, yet fragile rug upon which we stand.
Notwithstanding the banners and magic carpets, what we most hope for is not the readily obvious. Our biggest hope is that come what may, happiness and comfort are found.
When you get right down to it, that's all anyone can ever really hope to have.