So, it’s eight months now. I still feel as if I am the victim of the worst sort of theft. The theft of time. The time for being maudlin and melancholy has passed and certainly, the good memories make me smile, though wistfully. There is always the question of whether the fantasy made anything better or worse. Was it distracting enough or fanciful enough that any comfort was brought by it, or was it all the more painful knowing that those things spoken of would never come to pass. It never is *just words on a page. The other person is real, with real thoughts, feelings, hopes and plans that are impacted by everyone’s words, good, bad or indifferent. Did my words make a difference? Were my thoughts become words lending any encouragement or comfort? I think in song lyrics many times and the lyric “any love is good love” comes to mind, but is it really? How harsh to be both empathetic and analytic. To know one’s motive and intent is not to know the result, more especially when the person toward whom the thoughts and words were directed is no longer able to comment upon them. Was the reception given to them gracious to spare the feelings of the writer? And the platitudes, dear God, the platitudes. My doubts will not be quelled by them. Temporal matters. All of them. Measured in the balance of the eternal, the sublime, likely of such small importance as to be negligible. Even so the hamster wheel of thought goes round and round and I see no respite. Fate in this instance, both cruel and kind. Always the paradox. Always.