Missing a Touch That Knows My Heart

Sunday came and went following the same rhythm as the rest of the weekend. Not much to do, less to achieve. In its own way, exactly what was needed, something I've come to genuinely appreciate rather than merely tolerate.

Wudang still burns like hell, and I find myself already looking forward to the weather turning. I may regret that thought soon enough; in a few months, I'll be heading north to Chen Village, into cold considerably sharper than anything I felt there last year. Once again, I'll be living out the consequences of my own decisions, the way I have for years now. Uncomfortable, most likely. But there's a strange solace I've learned to find inside that discomfort.

It isn't that I want a hard life for its own sake. It's simply that dreams and desire tend to lead you somewhere demanding, and that seems to be exactly where mine have taken me.

Looking back over these past years, something I try not to indulge in too often — I can see real distance covered. And standing in the middle of that stretch, turning to face the other direction, I see just as clearly how far there still is to go. I suppose that's the nature of loving something with no fixed destination. Just a rough outline pointing forward, and faith that it's pointing the right way.

I don't regret a single moment of the last two years. But there's a quiet feeling settling in that soon I'll need more. More of what, I genuinely can't say yet. This path can turn lonely at times, and if I'm honest, it might be good to share some of its ups and downs with someone other than a notebook.

These pages have been my friend. My counsel, in a strange way. My other half, though I couldn't tell you the other half of what exactly. I only know I'm missing the touch of someone who knows this heart fully,  the good in it, and the parts that aren't.