I can see now
I'm so tired I've been squiting to read this as I type. Thank goodness for corrective measures with hefty price tags.
I've been recently self-diagnosed as a hermit. It's OK, they like me here, the cooking sucks though. The last two months have been in a total mindless and repetitive state, no, Ohio even. I've been chasing my pegasus as well as battling mediocrity. Two noble yet thoroughly pointless endeavours. I've been missing my writing, and reading, and socialising. And all those other normal non-hermit-like activities. Guess one doesn't write or read in groups though. Scratch that from the list.
I was browsing through some old photos, listening to some sombre music, when I literally cracked. At the office too. That's not healthy. No one saw me though. That's healthy. So many memories welling up inside me, my brim battling to contain the surge. Missing loved ones, totally unhealthy food, and the scent of adventure on the wind.
Crutches in armpits, full weight bearing down the alumninium struts. How funny the tracks must look in the sand. A walking tripod with rubber feet. Tracks, articificial tracks, no scent to discern. Tracks that lead nowhere, just plodding on. It's not the destination, it's the action. A noun, not a verb, fool. Comma abuse, I should be locked up, chained down and interrogated sideways. Too many questions hurt my overcrowded brain. My roads are full of ditches and potholes. There's no water on tap or electricity on plug, or is that socket. It's now twenty to bed-time, but I don't want to sleep. But I do. It's the waking I don't want to do. To sleep, perchance to have persistent nightmares. Sick. Where is my doctor?
