Vague and ephemeral, a promising point in the sea of data, she swam forward and faded, time and again. A digital presence promising more, sensing my loneliness and my need.
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.