To begin to even try and understand or fathom the melancholy, not quite debilitating but certainly one that pressures the chest and temples, had always been hard to pinpoint.

Initially he had thought the return of the feeling was due to the loss of endorphins from the lack of hard training. No longer was he hitting the bag and sparring twelve times a week.

He refused to accept that it was negative energy from her.

There was a confusion to that ebbed and flowed. At this moment it wasn’t present as he sat alone in the quiet jotting his thoughts down.

His cheap fountain pen sounded just like his broom did as he brushed the oak leaves off the canvas cover he had on the couch outside on the patio.

The phone rang and he considered the complete lack of excitement he had about taking the call. It seemed like occasional burst of love her had for her was simply not enough, nor sustained.

There was a hollowness he felt. A comfort he found in just being alone and having only the necessary interactions with people so as to not be truly alone and function at a baseline in society.

People’s needs, when not your own, felt inefficient, messy, and unnecessary to contend with. Was being alone really and truly a terrible thing. He wondered.

He thought about what his therapist had told him about the “shiva gotra” - these men in India who hit their mid to late sixties and leave everything behind to go meditate and lead an ascetic life.

He tried to surrender control. No rash decisions was his goal when it came to the matters of the heart.