So, I find myself in Reading, eating fancy sandwiches, busy finding my niche. I don't know whether I prefer places when they are brand new, with their unexplored paths and undiscovered corners. Shops to be unearthed, sights to be smelt. Monuments waiting to catch my fancy, nooks aching to be owned. Faces about to be learnt and trees with unknown names. Travel planned to quaint places, still names on a map. A forlorn pin board waiting to be claimed. Seasons to be understood. In their autumn attire, the trees looks like they are on fire. Reds mingling with warm yellows, an orange leaf twirls around a brown path. There is a quiet lake with its plump ducks. Will I name them? The endless possibilities. All the stories waiting to be written. I ache with expectation.
Perhaps for every loved thing one leaves, one can find something new to love. Perhaps. But then does one replace love? Perhaps one just finds space for the newer. The old needn't evacuate. Perhaps.