“I missed you,” she said. He looked down.
Then he walked away.



Some days it could be nice to examine the thinking, other days it would be better to walk out of the apartment, out into the streets, and start looking at people and finding a nice park or a coffee shop. Anywhere with some energy, a place to forget yourself and float like an old wooden sailboat into the seas. I walked slowly on the sidewalk and noticed the trees on the left hand side, lined up and separating the cars from the walking path on asphalt. I felt the foot touching, rolling, then slightly kicking off from the ground. Then repeat. The jacket was open. I walked a few more steps, and then stopped.
It was like walking as a little child, in a brief moment, like the body remembered something from a few decades before, and I felt a changing mood. Like liquid on a surface, gliding from one side to the other. At the end of the street there was a park, an old park with big oak trees and a wide pond in the middle. I kept walking as the street morphed into a scenery of a desert, and then of a forest. I was dreaming. There was a scratching sound, and I opened my eyes. Lying in bed. In a dimly lit room. The morning light hiding behind the curtains. And on the night stand table, a book, a cup, and a lamp. I briefly closed my eyes and tried to imagine the street I had been walking through. Was it an old vacation, or something from a movie, or just the imagination? It was partly recognizable but then it dissolved again. And the morning light started to seep into the room on the side of the curtains. A new day. And a busy day. I stretched lying and then sat up. Then slowly leaned back into the bed. No need to rush yet. There is still time.
Half an hour later I was sitting by the table having breakfast, already showered and dressed. A glass of juice, and a toast.

Evening Walk

He walked down to the river, and felt a different kind of exhaustion than before. But he knew it would be better, soon. The trees, and the water, always had a the calming effect of nature, and of peace.
There had been too many emotions for a while. But it would soon change. He was searching back to the normal habits, and a different kind of stability in the habits.
The sound of the river suddenly became more clear. And then, the slight breeze, and the green color on the leaves. He slowed down his step. And then it started to feel more like before. It connected him to the many walks along the same paths in the last few years. It was a feeling of home.
It would soon be dark, and not so many people were walking there yet. Maybe they would come later, it was often hard to tell. But he moved slightly closer to the water as he walked, and then, he felt the soft grass under his shoes. New memories started to float towards him. And he knew that it would balance the mood.

New Soil

He was walking along the river, again. But it was going in circles. The new ideas were pressing, and the inputs from other things, real things, public things, were sinking into him, and changing something. One more little unit, one more element into a bigger process, a process that always seemed to know its own course, in broader strokes. Over time.
It was turning into a solid first period, a period that had started on a little wall in the sunshine, in a beautiful corner of a beautiful little town, two years before. There was little stopping, only focusing at the moment, and keep moving. It had made the months interesting, as the growth of something new was happening, steadily. At some point there would be the questions of choices again, but not yet. A few more weeks. Some more efforts and early drafts and paragraphs, of something new. And digesting meetings of new people, conversations, and readings. The ebb and flow of a growing period. He looked down at the path before him, and at the trees along the river. Another step, and then another one. There had perhaps never been anything in life like this, before. Once the soil was more suitable, life had started to change.