I've been writing a story in my mind while I run. It's about a little girl and I don't know if it is long or short or if it will ever turn into black letters on paper (or screen) but I know the themes and I know what the little girl looks like. I know how she feels and I know how she reacts.
I used to come here every night and type stuff I didn't even know I was thinking. My fingers just typed it all, on and on, until they got tired. Then I would hit publish without even re-reading. That system worked for me, for a long time. I miss that system but I also miss that place, that place that isn't this place. It changed here, just like it changes everywhere.
I miss the way my house looked when we moved in. I miss that time, before it all felt too small. I miss the heart-melty conversation I had with Clark yesterday. I miss sitting in the hallway outside of my college poetry class, waiting for it to start. I miss being 28. I turned 29 last week. I miss everything that has ever changed, even though I love change and push for it constantly. I think I am burdened in this way. I'm just too much feeling, too much analyzing. Too much.
The girl in my story (that I will probably never write) has to confront her fears and assumptions about time. I am not the girl in my story, but I have to confront mine, too.
How can 26 month old Alice be gone? I love almost-four year old Alice just as much. I wouldn't trade this for that. But I still miss that.