The sticky truth seeps out between the cracks of my stony surface; a syrup that leaks from some unknown internal break. Its drops accumulate and drip over time, leaving a darkly dotted trail of where I've been, and if read correctly, one may accurately estimate where I'm going. I'm worried about staying in one place for too long -about parking my body in one place until the drops gather to form a puddle, staining the concrete for months afterward. I leave oil stains on carpets and bottoms of chairs all across Michigan.
To combat this, or rather to out run it, I stay on the move. Driving is my favorite method. You can measure the time I've spent in transit by the stack of books on tape I've borrowed from the library and finished. Laying them in a row from beginning to end, I cannot seem to remember all of their titles, but I am certain these are among them: Dress Your Family in Denim and Corduroy, Treasure Island, Red Dragon, Atonement, About a Boy, Cannery Row, The Lovely Bones. I drive to fill the hours of the day, audible books that I can not access in any other way have become by friend.
All this to say that I have become dreadfully lonely. I feel so isolated. Bloated with stupidity, quick anger, and a cumbersome social awkwardness. I dislike the route my existence has taken- days filled with me trying to fill my hunger for food, entertainment, and seeking company. But the hunger for company cannot be satisfied. I string together a series of acquaintances that remain at a distance -adequately removed from my thoughts and at times, silent desperation.



I hate this.