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Not quite four years ago, I found myself sitting in the front window of a brightly painted flat just off the beach.  Windows open, the sun just beginning to set, the tantalizing sounds, sights, and smells of a brand new adventure filling my senses.  This  was my attempt to capture that moment.

This morning I am curled up in the front room on the other end of town, listening to the now familiar sounds of the wind and the rain swirling outside, filling up my senses with a raw ache for the sights, sounds, and smells that will all too quickly fade into memory.  

This feeling, this moment, is even harder to encapsulate.  This space of transition is so open, so full, and yet, so very, very empty.   An emotional black hole, so vast and unavoidable, yet entirely undetectable until that moment that you find yourself tumbling over the edge into it's inescapable depths.  

Soon I will find myself curled up in a window somewhere else, drinking in the new that will become familiar and then, eventually, memory.  It's a cycle I know well, yet every time it catches me off guard.  For today, though, for at least this moment, I'm just going to sit here in this space and let it occupy me instead of trying to occupy it. Tomorrow will write it's own story soon enough.