In the silence of the empty life, the heart and mind yearn to find fulfilment. They know what they want, but they can only ask for what they know.
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.
Starting the weekend with a little upkeep, then a trip into town. Not a lot going on, and now I need to decide what to do with my night.
Deceived by the passage of time, we sometimes think that life is a straight road between past and future. It is not. Nor should it be.