I was reading my notebook from last summer.

"Ouch, I am having a grilled cheese sandwich."

On the way home this morning, I was talking about literature with my mom, and I realized how much I miss her and how much I wish I didn't feel like I don't live at her apartment when I'm there.

It's ridiculous how much enjoyment can be derived from a thought-provoking short story.

"I feel ghosts creep slowly over the grass and clover, hesitant to reach out and touch what intrigues them. When I turn my head, they disappear with the wind, phantoms that dare not linger for fear of being discovered. Then, a few seconds later, I dismiss these happenings with my perpetually useless logic: ferns scraping against the cement steps, branches blowing serenely in the rare breeze of today.

I chew on my pen as usual, thinking, running my lips along it as if that will bring ideas to mind. It tastes routine, like water or crackers. The cold smoothness is expected.

Where are you? I miss you."

I want these dreams to stop. I want this nostalgia to stop. I'm taking some time off. You won't be able to call me, you won't be able to talk to me, you won't be able to touch me or get to me. I am gone.

Gone or lost.