Wednesday

All day I was looking forward to taking a walk with my found iPod. As I set out on my journey, it was all out of battery power, so I walked and listened to the sweet sound of birds. I tried to walk off the stress of work, and it worked, a little. My new route involves a house I have a slight attachment to. A crush, if you will. It has a red-brick exterior, a medium-sized porch, a medium-sized back patio, a small walkway around three-fourths of the house, a bird feeder, a giant kitchen with a bar and plenty of room for a table, a living room with a fireplace and built-in shelves, dining room with two built-in glass corner cabinets, a bedroom on the first floor, a finished room in the basement with a window, a two-car garage, three bathrooms, and two large bedrooms upstairs with dormer windows. In one of the upstairs bedrooms, there is a large walk-in closet that's about as big as a large bathroom or a small office. Both the upstairs bedrooms have extra tiny rooms in the closets, each with little doors. They're like dwarf closets, and they're under the eaves, like a secret hiding place in each bedroom. The only major problem with me developing an attachment to this house is that it probably will never be mine. Some healthier people would never let themselves like things that can never be theirs. They probably wouldn't even listen to or enjoy a found iPod with a thousand awesome songs on it, like I did. They wouldn't want to miss it after it's gone. They probably wouldn't catch themselves trying to figure out why people don't call back or write back to them. They probably don't spend time envying people who don't develop attachments to unavailable people or things, or harbor irrational feelings of attachment. Then again, maybe we're all human.