I have always appreciated the warm fascinations about little towns and country roads with nothing on them but pavement and the occasional car that drives by on the way to go someplace else. There are towns like this, so small and unheard of, yet, they do exist. They have little stores and maybe a barber shop where the old men gather.
They probably have a diner in town, which everyone goes to and they have pies there, like peach cobbler or maybe even key-lime with a little puff of whip cream swirled on top.

There are details we hold onto, such as the past and the unresolved tensions that linger in the halls of our memory. Tensions like this are the unanswered questions that remain even after the tension is gone. We are products of our past. We are the aftermath of incidents and the remnants of recollections that stem from incidents and accidents that happened during out daily life. Our mind is a recording that plays the compilations of resentments to which, at some point, we become weighed down by things that are long since gone.

And in the interim, we wait. In between the now and then are the thoughts of expectation because, put simply, we’ve never been here before and we don’t know what to expect.

There were times in school when we would go over history lessons and learn about The Great Depression. We learned about the times of the great plague and quarantines of old days, like black and white stories from the past, and yet, here we are in the middle of something we never thought we would see. No one ever thought we would be here.
But yet, we are.