I watched Lost in Translation again today. I feel I have been in that ending situation too many times. I’m leaving, or being left. But my moments are never resolved like that. It’s crappy standing on a busy Tokyo street, waiting for Bill Murray to whisper the words that make everything alright, and he doesn’t. He can’t. He doesn’t know what they are. As far as I know, they don’t exist.
I guess he tries to figure them out. At least the hard and tearful hug is still there. Maybe it’s never possible for one or two sentences to relate precisely to what is happening right then in both minds. Maybe trying and trying and trying to find those words wears you down, and shutting up and just sharing the sentiment in a look is enough.
It’s clearly never going to be enough, though. I still want the right words.
I thought about this while emerging from an especially rewarding afternoon nap. As I lay and surfaced I breathed shallowly; breathing in made my left eye buzz and lose focus, which breathing out corrected but initiated in the other eye. Breathe in again, right eye focuses, left eye buzzes. I enjoyed it.
And now I sit typing, my toes getting cold as I invisibly steam off the warmth of bed and drop to the room temperature. I should have put my heater on. It’s going to be a cold night again.
This is a 
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