Right, so, words on the page.  Here they are.

    And not much has happened.  Or maybe too much has.  Always so unsure of what’s going on.  Always thinking far too much.  Always bouncing around in my cluttered thoughts.

    I put on my shoes to leave the house yesterday.

    Where are you going? a loved one asks.

    To Her, I say.

    Oh yeah?  How’s that going? she asks.

    And I just stand there.  I look out the storm door.  At the dead potted plants lining our walkway.

    And I say nothing.  It’s still going.  It’s still there.  Life is still moving on.  It still goes and goes, even at the times I wish it’d stop.

    Even at the times I buy a half pint of Jim Beam and a pack of American Spirits and drive around Columbia listening to Elliott Smith.  Radiohead.  Anything that will make my heart writhe.

    Even at the times I return home and my housemates block the exit to my room when I attempt to leave.  Even as I push and squirm past them, all to use the bathroom in the hallway alone.  All to just be alone.

    Even at the times I wake in the night, on the floor, and erupt with terror at how I’ll have to wade through another day.  That the sun will indeed rise and I will have to greet it.

    That there is something inside me that relentlessly pitters and patters and won’t give out.  Will never give out.  Will keep me going without my consent.

    Even at all those times.

    Right.  So.  I guess that puts me here.  Here writing again.  Here doing it again.  I guess, that says enough for now.