I continue to grow more inward yet still retaining a desire to use words to express what is passing through my mind at any given moment.
But yet, do I really want anyone to read any of this? At least while I'm alive? What's the purpose of continuing to write in this online journal?
The main reason is to lay down more breadcrumbs for my future. I have a theory that one day I'll figure it all out after all of these days of isolation. Maybe they will make more sense when I can see them in totality.
I know the way the funeral vase will looks, anyway. Though the question remains if my bones will decay in the wilderness or if my ashes will spread quickly after the immolation.
I feel the end coming though it may still be decades away. I understand my body's decay more now that I've seen my father's fall apart so rapidly, the nervous system no longer functioning in a way that was the person he was. I live in a house filled with his wreckage, a sudden decision to move not in his hands or my hands.
There could be a way out of this crater but I lack the energy to fashion a ladder. There is also the opposition of surviving here on the floor fighting for scraps and being fueled by nothing more than the memory of the horizon.
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