We've shut ourselves down. What does this mean? I try to keep my mind quiet, my anxiety at bay; pacified. I don't always win. None of us do.
In the silence of the empty life, the heart and mind yearn to find fulfilment. They know what they want, but they can only ask for what they know.
Not really much to say. It’s the weekend. A slow day. Not much going on.
A faded hope matches the mood of a dull morning commute.
I watch the quiet recharge, observing myself from a distance, even as I game. A weekend passes. I’m better for it.
The silent journey to work, a time shared with anonymous companions that I see each day I take this transit. I wonder if any of them recognise me, or even notice their fellow passengers?
A short story, a message to myself, found again by accident. Written a year ago. It is a message of hope, written in an uncertain time.
The second weekend of February. Clothed in red and white, it is a pretender. It claims to be the herald of romance, but it is not. It is, instead, the harbinger of emotional torture.
An unpleasant day in the office. I know I am just a meat sack, but today I really felt it.
An adventure into a world on the edge of society, to a place where the usual rules don’t apply. A place of free conversation, where people can be true to themselves.