Those days I seemed to know who I was. Those days had me laughing like I never knew how to laugh before. (I must forgotten how, since.) Those days were the worst, and the best, of days, for I recall each and every one of them, like the milky beads threaded around a blessed wrist. I remember because I lived those days; I was alive.
Then.
Is this merely me missing my friends? Is the loss of easy camaraderie so difficult to swallow? I’ve returned to old friends, and made many new ones, good friends, great ones as well. This is more than any man could ask for, surely? But I cannot wipe out those days when the sun is bright above and we are opening bottles of good Bavarian beer and Useless McGyver is at the grill, flipping home-made burgers, someone is singing, Marco’s guffaws, hearty and generous and true, and those were the days, I think.
I cannot return, yet I must attempt to do so. Fruitless tasks have their own rewards. This is less of a torture than allowing those days to creep on me suddenly, when I’m alone in the LRT, and dozing, my body sways, sways, and I’m in an U-Bahn again, why haven’t I left this behind? No more questions; it’s time for answers.
Ich suche sie. I search for them.