The days go on continuously, measured in beats-per-minute. Winter’s here in all it’s bright glory, but the sun sets a little later every day, marking the change of seasons. It’s the only way for me to keep track of the passing time.
So many days are spent alone, yet I don’t feel lonely. The only problem with isolation is that it lets me spend too much time with my own thoughts. This, combined with my introverted tendencies (which means my stimulation comes from memories), makes me feel like I’m trapped in the past. I suppose it’s not all bad, but it certainly does make it harder for me to heal.
I don’t know what to write. There isn’t the same struggle or need to vent. I find myself sitting and staring at a blank screen for hours at a time. It’s not like I feel the need to say something for the sake of it. There are still thoughts and ideas that linger, things to get off my chest, but they’re either too too simple to mention, or too complex to put down.
It’s strange to see this path laid out before me. I could wander off and explore new things, but I’m still too comfortable.
Things don’t change, but I don’t think I mind so much anymore.