Sometimes I feel tired. However when I ask myself how the energy I possessively called “mine” was spent, I sometimes feel as if I am looking for something. As if something was lost.

As I was driving today I took a detour down an old road. Old for me at least. I haven’t driven that way in months, maybe years. I don’t often think about it. I have had no reason to drive that road anymore. Maybe I had reason to avoid it. I was recently informed from a friend that by using that road I would spend less time than by using the course I typically travelled.

So I turned left.

In the early dark of winter I had difficulty recalling exactly how long the road was. The turns felt out of place and in more than one way I was going a direction opposite of that I had been accustomed to.

“That’s her house” I thought to myself. And I was mistaken.
“This is the turn” I thought. Wrong again.
“Just after this bend” crossed my mind. Again this feeling came and then escaped like smoke from a cracked car window.

By the time I had finally reached her house and instinctively turned down the street in search of confirmation, my memory had betrayed me so often that I had doubts I was at the right place at all. Passing her house once, turning around and passing it again. Spying that familiar front room through the window finally settled my compulsions. But that feeling was already gone.

And the house was empty.

There used to be an anticipation. An anticipation when I stood from my sofa. An anticipation when I turned my feet (and my legs followed). Before I took a step. And with traffic lights as obstacles the anticipation continued on until the destination was reached. And I would see her face. And she would smile to me because I was there. And that was enough for her.

And that anticipation has left me.

As I mistakingly took those houses to be her’s I felt a whisper of that anticipation. A wisp. Present as ever. But just a memory.

And memories
They don’t tell you what has happened
They simply wash you in a feeling