He is not in a building
If I went out on a trip and left for months at a time, and you missed me, you could come to my apartment. You could look at my pictures. You could write me a letter and leave it on my desk…you could go through my books and see the passages I highlighted and look at my doodles in the margins… You could read my journal and know that last thing I thought before I left on my trip. You could look through my belongings, and see what I left behind. You could enjoy imaginations, light my favorite candle, and smell the richness that comes with sensory memory, thinking of past times we spent together, the dinners, the laughter, the games, the conversations, all while that aroma filled the apartment. But… I would not be there. Would you prefer reliving the memories of our time together over spending time with me? What if I wasn’t on a trip at all, but outside the front door…? What if I had forgotten my key and was knocking, waiting for you to answer
