Turning my back

 I feel rejection. Scorn.  

I identify as a crazy man living by myself. That’s my tribe. How did I become an oddity to myself?

I dislike motion. I moved so much until my mental health crisis finally caught up with me. My marathon split times were never fast enough to outrun my own depression. Why move now when overtaken and the finish line is dismantled. My race is over and it’s time to sit by the side of the course and ponder and observe.  

It’s time to consider myself, because I am all I have.  And the cats of course. 

Today I go on airplanes again. Millions miler.  Do I care enough to arrange luggage or find my seat?  I’ve passed through so many gates to get somewhere and now I truly have nowhere to go. 

Wondrous. Why don’t I feel differently. This is me on anti-depressants. I don’t know if I’d be better or worse when I stop taking them eventually. What’s the end game anyway?

Sell my home.  Close up my shop. No need to ship those running shoes. There never was champagne or confettti to be had.  Only sone laundry perhaps, and a few more meals. And silent rest. 

These is something I need.  I sense it when I say I love myself. Underneath that I have an entire groundwater system of deep deep need. Pools so infinite and out of sight that my mind celebrates the rich capacity.  

I need to be loved for once again, and I can no longer give anything back to anyone except my cats. I do not have love in my any longer. I need a tranquil me, and I am saturated by everything else I once held