I really miss letting my little self out and playing with her.
The closer these things come to becoming a something the scarier it gets. Tons of what ifs and lots of buts, but mostly the dread of settling in, that period of disarray before everything finds its place, becomes comfortable. And I don't mean materially, arranging and rearranging and organizing and setting up is my absolute favorite part. It's more about the minds of the inhabitants, it's more about finding the light switches in the dark and no hesitation in your steps to the bathroom in the late, still hours of sleep times. It's about the subtle, subconscious sighs that don't even register with us anymore when we enter the door, hang our coats, slip our shoes off and drop our days. I don't want it to be a new habitat for our habits, a continuation of what is, what we are; I want it to be a vessel. Each day ushering in chance after chance for a new evolution.
What if she and I are strangers after so long apart. What if our time is forced, full of awkward silences, nostalgic glances. What if it's never an anything ever again.
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