meditations on a leather-bound journal, pt. x

I'm home again. I figured I should get out of the hotel before the management came back. Nobody seemed to notice my return. I went back into my room and lay on the bed, looking at the notebook. I felt guilty. I'd gotten distracted. My focus had been on the notebook, on her, and I let a bit of cheap wine and a pretty face distract me.

It was the guilt that kept me from opening it again. I couldn't bear to read her words after I'd done this to her. I don't really know how to explain it. It's like betraying someone who doesn't even know you're loyal to them--but she knows. She must know. Everything she writes, it's like she's living my life. And it's like she's better at it than me, somehow.

I'm going back over the mountains this weekend. I hope, pray, that she'll be there, when I stop.

Looking for encouragement, I opened the book and read a page. 'It seems like I'm never in the same place twice. I'm always on the move, never satisfied. I bought this as an anchor. I want a place to come back to and it'll be the same every day.'