It’s odd to have spent your year waiting for something. Though whatever sensation the waiting carries, it is nothing compared to the actual experiencing of what has been anticipated. The period I have waited for has now drenched me, but I fail to drown in it. Caught in the moment’s showers, I still only see the future again, as if trained by habit, accustomed to maintaining a gaze set in the distance, the dream I have waited for slips me by. And I realise, no matter if waiting, or making wild flings at attempts to savour the awaited, the days, all the days, they run away like wild horses over the hills.
Hello From Sam
Samuel's Travels 
happiness is a journey, not a destination.
Love it. In its brevity, its wistful resignation, its restraint and its imagery, the piece reads as if translated from the Japanese. Channeling Murakami channeling a classical Japanese author?