I find myself up at this hour, yet again. It’s a habit, this nocturnal rumination, something that’s become... well, consistent. For decades now. Decades. I'm looking at this painting, a vast landscape, all greens and blues, that hangs opposite my desk. It’s very expensive, I’m told. But it feels so… sterile. So unlike the real thing. It just sits there, every single day, every day, mocking me in its stillness. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it, about all the choices, the infinitesimal decisions that build up, brick by brick, until you’re seventy-six and looking back at a life that feels… not wrong, precisely, but certainly not *yours*. Not the one you envisioned, not the one that felt authentic. The path I chose, the corporate path, the high-rise offices and the billable hours, it was supposed to be something. Something significant, I suppose. And it is, in a way. I’ve achieved a certain level of… distinction, you could say. But I still find myself wondering, truly, wondering, if anyone else experiences this particular flavor of regret. My father, he was a park ranger. A simple man, I suppose some would say. He spent his days in the woods, tracking things, preserving things. He knew every tree, every animal, every turn in the creek in our valley. He knew the wind before it arrived. And I, I just… watched him. With this deep, abiding sense of admiration. He seemed so… integrated. So connected to something fundamental. I remember the smell of pine and damp earth that clung to his clothes. It was a kind of… primal scent, almost. I could have done that, you know. I could have followed him. There was even a moment, I recall, right after college, where the opportunity presented itself. A local position, entry-level, but it was there. But then someone, someone very influential at the time, pointed out the… limitations. The financial implications, the lack of what they called 'upward mobility.' And I listened. I always listened to the 'sensible' advice. And now here I am. In this sterile, high-rise office, with its sterile, expensive painting, and the distant city lights that look like scattered jewels. And I think of him, my father, walking those trails, feeling the ground under his feet. And I wonder, am I the only one who feels this way? This profound sense of a fork in the road, taken incorrectly. Not catastrophically, but… subtly. A subtle misalignment, that just compounds over the decades. This constant, pervasive yearning for a life that was… simpler. More real. More… earthy. Anyone else? Or is it just a unique brand of melancholy that comes with the territory of too many years, too many thoughts, too many roads not taken? It’s not sadness, not exactly. More like a pervasive, gentle ache. A phantom limb, for a life never lived.