Someday, when the page no longer begs for my ink, when I can sit in front of the TV and actually understand what’s going on with all those explosions and visual effects, when my arms are contented squeezing a simple, soft pillow, and when my mornings are finally as predictable as a cliche first sentence in an amateur essay, jealousy will die. By then, I may remember a thing or two when my vision lands upon a familiar book on a bored Saturday stroll in the mall. A thin scent of something like coffee or mocha may make my nose sniff uncontrollably. People would be talking about important stuff but my ears may hear faint laughter or “oohs” and “aahs.” Perhaps I’d be too tired then since I’d have too many Saturday strolls and too many TV marathons. So what I’d do is just find the nearest bench from where my weak feet are planted on, and I’d sit there, breathe deeply, put my hands in my pockets and let my fingers feel the scraps of the other day. I may pull out an emotionally crumpled piece of paper and a cheap, greasy pen and start writing something. The first sentence would be a complaint about the music of the times and the second sentence would be a glorification of yesterday’s food. The third would be an apology for another mediocre blog entry on the Internet. The fourth would be about the futility of plans and the constant vacuum of the past. The fifth would be about some old room in an aged building that seems to have plans to stand eternally. And at that point, I’d have no choice, but not to finish writing or whatever I am doing, breathing perhaps and sitting, because at that point, I’d have no choice but to think about you.