so i guess it’s true. it’s true what they say. they say that the hardest thing about going away is returning to the place you were getting away from. if such a place even exists.

the things i left are still here, the way i left them. the broken window covered with a black plastic garbage bag. the forgotten sandwich, molding away in the refrigerator. the book on John Cage and Zen Buddhism that I began reading when I arrived here in January, finally finished the day before my departure. the rust stain on the marble sink. the clothes moths.

but for some reason, somebody broke in, to make the bed, and move things around that I may never find again. maybe that was their purpose.

i worry.

i worry about not feeling things again the way i felt them before.

i worry about feelings the same way i felt them before.

because i am back.

there is a reason i came back. i am fairly certain of it.

it’s unfathomable to me now.