Two weeks of neglect. Two weeks of escapism in another city and damn near another state, but I am back and so I write. Muscle memory, that’s all it is. This room is dark save for the artificial light before me. I find light and all that it might reveal to be nothing more than distractions. I am a miserable mess of a human being, riddled with countless contradictions and gradations of right and wrong.

Who am I really? Am I my base desires and my even darker impulses, or am I that little ball of light… those aspirations that to this day hold me afloat? These questions that plague me are unending, increasing in volume with the setting of the sun and the growing silence of humanity, constantly stealing my sleep all the while. I run from them one and all, seeking shelter in the embrace of moonlit lovers and music and the psychosis known as writing.

This is supposed to be reality but to me it isn’t. “It’s not so much about getting anything out of life as it is about bringing something into it”.  Maybe that’s my truth. Or A truth. Or just another muddled version of it amongst billions. Maybe these intervals are building to something magnificent. Maybe not.

This is a story about life and my extreme distance from it.