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.