June Gloom.

Hurts come in little waves.

Saturday mornings dawn earlier than desired, you're suddenly awake by 7:45am and you have a dauntingly wide open day ahead of you.

You've become so enveloped in work that you don't know how to weekend anymore.

People slip in and out of your life, like little clouds. They appear suddenly on the horizon, and then they lazily drift away once enough time has been invested into your relationship. You don't keep in touch with them anymore.  You don't let them know when you're sitting at the coffee shop minutes away from their house.  You don't text a "How have you been?" even though they're constantly on your mind.

You just stop trying, sometimes.

After two episodes of Freaks and Geeks re-runs and half a container of last night's Chinese food for breakfast, it's only 10am and you're already tired of today.  The weekend you were so looking forward to has become obsolete; now you're counting the hours until it's over and you can go back to work.

There's probably 300 books on your bookshelf, more than half of which are still unread, but you can't commit to any of them.  So you just keep buying new ones.

Kurt Vonnegut says "So it goes," and Salinger quips, "Very big deal."

There's a floor to mop and laundry to rotate, guitar strings to buy, and cash to withdraw from the ATM.

But what happens after you finish those errands?

Where do you go?

I miss the ocean today.

I wish I could see the swell.

I wish I could hear the thunder of surf instead of voices.

"You can't go to the ocean today," A voice whispers from the back of my mind, the same voice that whispered the same lie to me last weekend.  It's a voice that stems from fear.  Fear of being alone when I get there. "Your guitar needs new strings.  That card you've been meaning to send won't send itself."

In weakness, I surrender to this voice.

Maybe I'll get there next weekend.