"If the sun never shows its face again . . ."

The blood in veins crawls up north. There is whiteness, and jibber-jabbing of foolish nonsense from vents and windows. I spend 90% of my time in three rooms, often finding myself amazed in the rare moments life encourages me into the wilderness.

I wonder if my phone might ring had my parents never moved to the forest. I lament tinted memories of darting across dark roads to steal friends from family for frivilous experiments, and taking for granted the light-pollution of the night sky.

There are messages I mean to write, but I don't know where to start.

There are responsibilities creeping ever closer, poisoning sleep and making phantoms of the truths I used to hold dear.

For another week, I am alone, but with the two people closest to me in this world: mom and dad. As hopeless as their efforts are, I cherish their attempts . . . but the plagues that rumble through me cannot be cured by the simple sentiments of blood relations.

I fear I face a nothingness of eternal depth back home (because this is not home). The necessity of Career--of Work and Job, the housings of Paychecks and Standard Ethics . . . or betting on the fantastical illusions that have pulled me along, so rarely with emotional ballast, all these years.

Periods like these, I consider it a wonderful acheivement that I killed off my ability to cry. My parents wouldn't understand the tears, and I could not explain them, and they would just cause more despair in the end.

For now I keep things simple, really only lifting my fingers--only working towards anything of substance--for maybe an hour a day. Otherwise, I am lost in false worlds; dreams and digital fictions.

I'd pray for a savior, but seven years of broken hopes have taught me better.