Back to a city of ghosts. Strange, that the setting of my childhood dramas and teenage rebellions should remind me mostly of one thing, one person, one way of life. I- we- used to fantasize
about this moment, when time (and space) would no longer be
an issue, when joy wouldn’t have an aftertaste of quiet desperation.
Then, as the dream began to resemble a possibility, I was overwhelmed by insecurities. My determination to see it through evaporated. I gave up.

And now all I can do is walk around disoriented, surrounded by threatening what-ifs and could-have-beens, constantly sensing that something’s wrong but unable to put my finger on it.
And all I've got left is a burning, though purely rhetorical, question: Who’s to blame for the fact that every single time I acquire
strong feelings for something- for someone-, the road is laden with obstacles? Bad luck? My ill judgement? Or are the obstacles what makes the feelings so strong in the first place?