It's not December, when we're anxious to be with family again. Or March, when the promise of a new beginning is at the edge of our vision and we can smell the warm weather on its way. It's not even November, when nothing is more comforting than the idea of a warm bed, a discoloured afghan and the prospect of hiding away for a weekend to do nothing except fill eyes with words and ears with sound.
Maybe it's the time of the year. Maybe it's the fact that we're all trapped inside. The fact that our entire beings are the product of textbooks, ticking clocks, the closeness of a hot mug of coffee, early bedtimes, empty banks accounts and the reduction of love to binary code.
We're starting to remember. To crave. We're starting letters that will probably never be sent.
We're homesick. Weary, worn, missing. But not for a place or a person--we're craving a moment in time.
We're missing something that we can never have back.
Next time, when the snow thaws and the ice melts and there aren't so many obligations weighing us down. . .
But when will we remember to do better this time around?