I know this one chick, she's the maestro of the metaphor and the sultan of the simile.

Me, I'm neither. The best I can come up with is that tired old cliché phantom pubic hairs equal feelings.

Confused? It probably won't become any clearer.

Sometimes, I sit at Rich O's after work, and everything is almost perfect. The place is empty enough that I feel like I'm the only one there. My mood is decent but not good, subdued but not sad, alert but not anxious. The music is at a comfortable level, and it's not fucking Johnny Cash. The beer is yummy.

Almost perfect.

After work today I sat in the throne, drinking a pint of Spezial Rauchbier (1190), and it was as close to perfect as it's been in a very long time.

Too fucking close.

I found myself getting irritated because I'm not supposed to be content in that place. There are reasons that I go there, and those reasons do not include beer or conversation or music or any of that crap. That crap I can get anywhere, and that crap is not why I go to Rich O's.

I go to Rich O's because that's where it all happened. Because that was the scene of my crime. Because that's where the ghost is. Because I know without a doubt that Rich O's is the place where, if I have any chance at all of resurrecting anything even remotely resembling actual human emotion - it will be there.

So I go.

I sit in the throne or at the bar or at the island and I grasp at gossamer wisps of emotion, but they evaporate when I touch them.

I tug, ever so gently, on threads tied to memories of that place from so long ago, but those threads break with the slightest tension.

I pull phantom hairs out of my mouth, but I can never quite get a grip, and my fingers emerge from my lips with nothing on them but moisture.

A tickle in my throat, a quiet voice in my head, a tiny and brief rush of adrenaline when someone walks in the door. These are the new highlights of my life.

I am not heartbroken, though I should be. I am not happy, though I long to be. I am not sad, though I deserve to be. I'm finding, more and more lately, that I'm simply content.

Fucking content. What a load of crap that is.

A wise man once wrote:

I'm not really sure where I'm going with this - it just doesn't seem right to let things fade away. Some things deserve a grand exit. Some things deserve closure. Some things do not deserve to be pushed aside so they can fade over time and eventually be forgotten completely.

But that's exactly what's been happening. The fire burning inside me has used up its fuel. Nothing but glowing embers remain and though someone or something may occasionally blow air over those embers, and they may flare up for a brief time, I fear that their flames will never again consume me the way that they once did.

That is my fear. That the time for love is behind me forever. That I've missed my exit, and that I'll never pass this way again.