An Interior Sun

Sitting in a hotel lobby, trying to ignore the communal television and its talking heads trumpeting on over celebrity deaths and conspiracy, I wait for the hours to tick by. I wait as floors are swept, as staff with rolling carts stuffed with those veneer like ammenities that assure us this room is new and special; we walk into some room, bags slung over shoulder, and see new towels, toilet papers, sheets, and neat little drink coasters protected cheap furniture from look cheaper. I wait.

Knowing the events to come, just hours away, everything becomes a potential distraction: I watch a maid clean the counters, listen to a couple bicker because she doesn't "know where the hell the cards are", feel the ebb and flow of tension as new guests check in and old business checks out. Yet every distraction, now oddly interesting as my mind wrestles to understand what it is I am about to do, seems surreallistically dull. Not boring--dull. Its as if the flavor of things has been muted.

Muted because in my heart a sun is blazing. A star so bright I can barely look at it. It warms the skin, brings a smile to faces, but too bright to look at. Too wonderous and strange.

So I wait, observing trivial details.

I should go put on my tux; my groomsmen will be here soon.