Actively, I’d look out and try to find the Reason.
I can remember vague and distant memories of being in a garden, playing with mud or sand. There’s a familiar sensation of the grains of earth rolling past my fingers, the pressure of the grit pushing under my nails. The grain and the gristle of what should have been filth.
Digging.
A tunnel. A fort. A mound. A castle. A mountain. A landscape. Or just a pile of mud. Uncovering a hidden truth from within something else.
And then I wrote. Learned to write and from that I had abstract thoughts. Or maybe the other way round. That the abstract thoughts pushed themselves from my spirit onto paper. Because back then, that’s what I did.
Pen to paper.
Instead of the pecking of my fingers against plastic.
The tap tap digging of my fingers into a keyboard. The now remembered noise that reminds me of who I am and who I had lost. Along the Way.
I’m so lonely.
Ish.
And as the days go by, am I more content to just tap away? And find a way to remember I’m a human, without the need of a touch or caress, or a love the kind only a lover can give.
I miss it. I don’t. I do. I don’t miss her. Do I want someone else? I don’t know.
And the chaos consumes me. The tunnel, the mound, the mountain, the fort. It all collapsed around me. And all I have left is a pile of rubble. Some remnants from before. And I don’t even know if I want another castle.
All I’m doing now is digging myself out of this hole.
It has to be enough. To get out of the hole before the water floods in.
Then later for the questions.
What should I build next?
Finding my Way 