Part Eleven.

Sometimes I sit and think, and I still miss her. It's sad when you miss something you never had in the first place.

I sit in this growing humidity. I feel beads of sweat gathering on my back and forehead.

What does it matter how many opportunities pass me by? There will always be another. Another event to attend, another person to court. A life of constant others.

Music swells in my ears, the violin strings gently being caressed by the bow, a sound of sadness in this case. As quickly as they had come, they were gone, replaced by strings of another sort.

Wanting what you can't have seems like such a falsehood. I see it portrayed in creative mediums, but who actually experiences it? More to the point, what would I do were I presented with it as a condition that I suffer from?

Maybe it would explain things.

More sounds enter my ears: water running through the pipes above me. That annoying, sporadic sound.

Usually I go with my feelings to solve a problem. I listen to my heart, but also something else that I can't explain. Something that I hear, but have no words for. I also see things in my head; images that appear random, but again, they speak to me. Right now, I see a whiteish square grid in front of a black background. The grid is made of a thread of some kind, like string . . . but it's tangled. One corner appears limp, falling in onto itself as a result of the loss of its structural integrity; more knots and snags are scattered around the mesh. I feel this is what's happening with my feelings right now.

I know there's something I have to do, but what? And will I be able to overcome my fear to do it?

Maybe some rest will help me untangle these knots.

Part Ten.

I walk along this familiar road, listening to familiar voices. The summer sun warms me to the point of discomfort, though it's not unbearable.

It's time to separate the good from the bad, I've reasoned. The trustworthy from the unworthy; the almighty from the powerless. Even if that means throwing myself in harms way every once in a while.

I approach the café & bookstore, somewhat unsure of what to do next. I decide to enter, and am plunged into a new world—small as it might be.

"Nothing worth having in life comes easy", a disgruntled doctor once told me. I used to take that as, "you have to suffer to get what you want," and that stopped me from taking chances. I now realize there's more than one way to play this game.

I scan the books, examining their presentation. Some are obviously old, their spines streaked with white, cracked lines. I arrive at the section I came for and begin searching for those special words; that distinctive visual. After triple checking, I continue across the shelves to a new section, my hands remaining empty.

I've noticed the pressure of the world more often lately. The periods off on my own are of a stark contrast to the rest of my time; indeed, even the rest of the world. Perhaps I give myself too much credit. Or perhaps others don't give themselves enough.

"No thanks, I'm just looking," I reply to the employee, a young man not much older than myself. Though he seems more relaxed than other employees at other establishments, I still feel he is trying too hard. But would I really be any different?

Perhaps I give myself too much credit.

I leave the café enriched. Not astronomically, and indeed, others will not even notice this small change unless it's compounded with more of the same. But it's there. What will happen with it is in my hands, though I don't like to admit it. I prefer to listen to my feelings and trust that they will guide me to where I need to go. Perhaps I give myself too much credit.

Or perhaps others don't give themselves enough.