Plastic cups, plastic straws

Sitting in a Starbucks, drinking iced white chocolate mocha, venti, watching the world go by, Huntsville Hospital campus across the street.

Blue sky, tiny hints of white vapourish clouds tinting lapus hues…

Passing in and out of love with the same woman has watched me move in and out of the ordinary, nary, ary.

I almost bought her a whole house a few weeks ago.

Perhaps I should have.

Perhaps I will.

Today, instead of treehouse building, I fixed up a ’95 BMW 325i for sale to a fellow rebuilding the fascia and soffit that the dear old raccoons, squirrels and tree rats had chewed to pieces as I let them set up home in the attic.

I searched the house for the car title, to no avail, although I did spend time cleaning out cabinets and drawers for just in case I need/want to move out of the house now that it has a new roof, fascia, soffit and gutter/downspouts.

I am getting more deaf every day, unable to hear much of what people say, left to my imagination most of the time.

A dreamer lost in a dream…

A few years ago (ten, actually), I decided to retire from the office worker life to concentrate on the meditative path to the end of my life, retiring to the wooded garden in the backyard, content to live with and share my domicile with wildlife.

And so I did, fulfilling a childhood dream of being a writer in the woods.

I reached the semifinalist stage of the Amazon Breakthrough Novelist Award on year, writing parts of a novel in this Starbucks.

That’s why I returned here, why I returned to my parents’ house the last weekend to talk with my sister about my life and what I’m currently doing.

Four years ago I fell in love with a woman (not my wife) and throughout the last 48 months I forgot and remembered her over and over again, wondering every time why I return to thoughts of her when we have had no contact.

Because of her, I’ve been more daring than I was in previous months, I’ve laughed more, enjoyed my pains and sorrows more…

I’ve written to/about her in one form or another in this blog and many others.

Not that I love my wife less.

That had been a problem for me.

My wife is a good friend, always has been.  She’s a caring person with whom I’ve built a comfortable and comforting life.

But does comfort equate to happiness?

Sure, I know all about middle-class and middle-aged angst, the ennui of the good life.

When robots are building your investment portfolio, how do you fill your time?

I wrote nine pieces of art (not necessarily books or novels).  I’ve created works of art, including my life.

The woman I’ve fallen in and out of love repeatedly is also a work of art.

On Sunday, I reset myself, something I’ve done a few times.

After a reset, I have to relearn certain things, like my relationship to/with others.

Last night, I saw the woman again for the first time and wow, she was more beautiful than ever!  I sat, talked and danced with our friends and felt like I was where I’ve always thought I was supposed to be, wanting to get to know the beautiful woman who had brought us all together.

I had fallen in love with her before but could the new me fall in love with her again?

I left before I could find out, knowing that I might see her tomorrow.

For the first time, I am uncertain about the future and that makes me happy because I’m willing to let this new me take risks that the old me wouldn’t dare.

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