As it always does, your internal mayhem–will others want to hang with you, will they like what you’ve done with the place?—
fades. Anxiety is too tiring, and the longer you’re alone, the less you care.
For better. And for worse.
So here you are in the home you’ve built.
The home away from others–the home you hoped to find, isn’t that right?
Days pass.
Some you wake up uncertain where you are.
Others you hear voices down the halls.
They seem cheerful. Quizzical. Half-familiar.
You know they aren’t real.
From time to time you decide to play a bit.
Let’s go on a quest, you think.
Where to?
Sailing might be nice.
Get on a boat. (In your mind.)
Get on a train.
A plane.
However you go, it takes awhile.
You are caught inside for so long.
Whenever will you get to where you are going.
Time passes.
Time passes.
Time passes.
You arrive, finally, at your destination.
The doors open.
Step out into the open air.
Ah, such brisk air! Ah, what a lovely garden. Ah, the stretching of the legs after a long supine spell.
Isn’t life? Isn’t—life?
Yes. Isn’t it, darling.
What a lovely day. You can do anything. You can go anywhere.
And yet you choose this.
home 