I am not very good at milestones. In them, I invest so much potential for change. I’m not sure if I ever change much at all. Hairline recedes and beard advances. I flip the pages on my calendar. And still I remain.

We’ve become caricatures of ourselves, Tony and I. But we are not the only ones. The television set shows me famous people, the radio plays me popular songs, and my daily errands introduce me to friends and acquaintances all of whom suffer the same stale ailment.

However, on a day like today I do not notice this in others, simply myself and the patterns I complete day in and day out. I think that is why lately I feel myself reaching back into my past, reliving what may now be “the good old days.” All my loves and useless desires. I am trying to shape them into stories. Stories upon which I may build a future.

And still I remain, sitting here, wondering why I am still here sitting. Every day I write the book on loneliness, regret, and longing.