I suppose loneliness is the way your heart tells you you’re on to something, the same way it skips a little when you hear that voice. I’ve always been good at this part, the waiting, the deprivation. Yet this time around the famine seems worse. I miss her more then I’ve ever missed a person. I suppose it’s proportional to the way I feel for her, but the sentiment still rings clear in my ears. I’m cannot number the days until I see her next. While the days since our last meeting have quantifiable time attached to them, they drag on as if into eternity. What did I think about before she came along? How did I occupy my mind in my time alone? I can’t seem to find a train of thought that doesn’t circle back to her. While it is without a doubt pleasant to daydream of her at all hours, it is it’s own form of torture. It isn’t a need of body that draws me to her, but a need of her. This time around at home has been far from enjoyable without her. I feel lethargic. What did I do with myself when I came home before I met her? Certainly a curious question. I am legitimately depressed, and surprised as such. This is unlike me. I’m the one who waits patiently, I’m the one to whom time and distance are but challenges. The more the better, for the more you do now the easier the road ahead becomes. This time it’s different. There is a reason to be here now, and that reason is not here now. This is truly trying. Not difficult, but certainly its own form if struggle. This has been but a financial adventure so far, serving no true purpose but to drive my mind wild. The day in which I see her next will be a great day, but all that come before look to be dull. What I would give simply to hear her voice. This trial will end at some point, and I will see it through. Because at the end of this darkness is a time when the sun will remain on my face indefinitely, and that is all I’ll ever really need.