The silent journey to work, a time shared with anonymous companions that I see each day I take this transit. I wonder if any of them recognise me, or even notice their fellow passengers?
A short story, a message to myself, found again by accident. Written a year ago. It is a message of hope, written in an uncertain time.
The second weekend of February. Clothed in red and white, it is a pretender. It claims to be the herald of romance, but it is not. It is, instead, the harbinger of emotional torture.
An adventure into a world on the edge of society, to a place where the usual rules don’t apply. A place of free conversation, where people can be true to themselves.
Sheltering at home from the storm, I think back to the night before.
The weekend begins with an unpleasant task, an overdue part of the regular chores.
Not a lot happened, today. But I’m going to tell you all about it, all the same.
On reaching a milestone, today, I share the briefest of notes. How I got here, and what it means. Half a year of sobriety.
Contrasts, observed in comparison, between now and then. A month has passed, and I have an opportunity to view the same place in a different light. Quite literally; thinking about it.
Thoughts, unbidden, arise. Driven by circumstance, I ask: who are we, and were are we going?