The years spent on sex, drugs, alcohol and daydreams, time spent so agreeably.

All my life in front of me, as always.

We try and sell our sprawling, bohemian, and tumbledown home, and attract a couple with almost enough money but not enough sense.

They trust us because we seem the same.

Where others sought adventure, I looked for an escape.

So I went within, where the widest open space was, and quickly lost my mind to find myself.

My parents thought things were going well, because I told them nothing. My hopes, dreams and aspirations were empty beyond oblivion, ignorance and anonymity, and I lacked the words to express this in any form that wouldn't cause alarm, and most of all I was frightened of my father's anger, and how it would play out against my mother.

In this way I spent decades underground and in the shadows, waiting for a death that never came.

I thought I had a bad memory, then realized I'd done nothing to remember.

 I embraced monotony, going deeper into routine and shunning novelty, finding eternity in the dragging of the days.

 A friend loses their job, and I walk lighter.

Enjoying the simple life, feeling good and not fucking up in all the obvious old ways, then suddenly a twinge of shame. Shouldn't I be doing more to impress myself upon the world and others?

But I don't want to.

Something bad happens, and it doesn't bother me, at least not much, although the implications could be significant.

I wonder if I'm on the way to achieving inner peace, or just oblivious and coping.

Cycling to the store on an old sit-up-and-beg bike, new blue sneakers, loose black cotton pants, blue camp collar shirt, dark sunglasses, and a white beanie dropped on my head. I pass a young couple I know and like, close in age to my daughter, and they wave at me and I wave at them, and keep cycling, cool to my ultimate perfection.

Ten seconds later and I stop and turn, consider going back and talking, but they're already little people, far away and still walking, the distance growing all the time.

When they're my age I'll be dead, or near it.

I cycle on and arrive at the store. Buy food that'll become part of me and my shit.

The days last forever, till they don't, and I'll continue to fill mine with nothing.

The mistakes and omissions accrue, and I continue to fall further behind.

I broke down once more and remade myself from a mix of old and new.

I don’t know how many times I can do this, but I know it'll happen again. 

I wake up and see the day ahead. The pursuit of money must begin soon, and be relentless until I give up and spend the evening blotting out the fear instead of plotting an escape.

I remember who and what I am, the world inside my head.

A focus on the small things, pleasures that are cheap or free, readily accessible, nurturing and so on. Ways to avoid greater suffering.

And still the depression that comes with a looming sense of doom and the inevitability of a sudden and total collapse.

I fall into further despair.

I did nothing, yet was surprised when nothing happened.