Waiting on a moment.

I believe in moments: every kind and every shape, every possibility, every permutation. The moments that define, the moments that pad out; that fill the gaps. Those which bring tears or scars, lessons or ordeals. The mundane, the bizarre, the typical and the exceptional. Bring them all, pile them high and let me pick through them, suck the marrow from each until only the husk remains. For I believe that moments are our currency. They feed, they sustain - and without them we will surely starve, certainly wither. Without them we are pale imitations, mere shadows, negative images. Without them, we become the husks. I believe that, believe in the power of those moments.

Whether plain or ornate, I believe in life's moments. I believe that every one has beauty; the potential to shine, to dazzle. A long time atheist, this is my one remaining faith - and I place my faith wholeheartedly, passionately. I sense these moments on the wind and savour the chance to reach upwards towards them, to cup them in my hands. To bring them to my chest and feel their beat, their pulse against my body, radiating through to my heart. Then to mould them and shape them, gently and with love; with understanding and respect. To blow my life's breath into them and open my hands, watch them soar. To watch them rise upwards; disappear into the ink-black night, sit as specks of light alongside all those which came before them, serving as the beacon for those which will follow. When night comes, when I can lie on my back and look upwards, look into that patchwork night of moments, that myriad spectrum of memories - that is when I feel legitimate, a true presence. For that night sky is me; all of those pinpricks of light, they are me, they are mine - all of them. They are my reassuring canopy of incidents, experiences, loves and losses. My litany of sounds, cries, memories. They are my stories - and they hold watch above me as I sleep, bring me safely through to daybreak.

And I have lived my fair share of moments in my time. They have registered, stuck, burnt their way in and settled as scars. Some you can see, some you cannot - but all have taken their place on the body of the man I have become. Some have bruised, suffocated, enraged and battered. Others have healed, taught, caressed and reaffirmed. Be they bad or be they good, they hang for you to see - laid out above my head, all on view, open for business, inspection, scrutiny. I have covered many; will add more as the seasons progress, as the time becomes right. Because that is what I do here - I add my moments.

And yet one moment escapes me for now. For now it is unfinished, unformed, incomplete. For now, I live my days within it and to grasp it now would be to shatter it, to break it, to bring bad luck raining down upon me. Yet it is all around me every day; all I can think about and all I can see. I reach for it, see it flit between my outstretched hands, my imploring fingers. It cannot be caught for it has not come to rest. I must wait for it to slow, to drop; wait for it to lie still, to lie at peace before it can be gathered.

Once gathered, it must be moulded - and I sense that this will take time, will cause pain. I know that this moment will more than likely leave scars - so I brace myself, preoccupied, waiting for it to land, to come within reach. Waiting for this moment to end; for its white heat to dull to the stage where it can be touched without branding; without burning. Waiting for the day that I can shape it, polish it. Waiting to hang it and waiting to look past it; to see beyond it. But for now just waiting, waiting.