Saturday, the 29th.

It’s a strange feeling that you get, when you’re someplace that you’ve been before, but not quite. Yes, it’s the same, or at least, feels the same. It’s a Saturday morning, the books are on the bookshelf, and the soft autumn sunlight is falling upon the pillows. But it’s not the same. It’s different because this isn’t where it was last time. This is here. Now. Now she is at work, and I am here, left to think, left to read, left to let my mind wander. Wander to where? To a place where this day lasts a lifetime and these bittersweet feelings are my everyday companions? To a place where our voices utter exactly what we mean to say the first time? To the future, which is filled only with delusions and hopes, fears and desires? No, my mind cannot wander down those hallways, because it will always return to me here, empty handed, to realize that none of that matters. What matters is that I am here, looking out the window and hearing the cars go by, and that I would give absolutely anything to become the man that can say exactly what he means without sounding foolish. It astounds me that I have felt the overwhelming need to write when it seems that I have absolutely nothing to say.