I don't know what to do with myself. There is no school. There is no job. There are no appointments to keep, no obligations that happen in terms of real things and not money passing from palm to palm. I am trying, but I have no alarms to set for marking days. I could stay awake for 99 hours, put on my tennis shoes and walk all the way home slowly over weeks and weeks. I could ride a horse. I can paint as many paintings as I want, write love letters, go to jail or go to Kansas and play hide and seek alone in a cornfield.

None of this is true, it is the illusion of freedom fresh smelling before the rot stench of marginalization covers it, drawing me down to nausea. I assume. I have never been to this place. I think that I must be dead, because nothing is moving. Lives are going on and progressing or holding, except mine, I am not moving, I am falling and falling not in a bad way. It makes a certain amount of sense. I am over now, finished. What else do I do?

Now what? I am being asked over and over by mouths of strangers and the long lost. I throw up my hands. I have no plans.

My life has always been caught up in the act of action, and I will go wherever I am pushed or invited. But all the assumed goals are accomplished. I am done. Just done.