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I did a bad thing yesterday; I escaped. I left a note, and my phone was on my
person at all times, but everyone was still worried about me. I knew they
would be, but I wasn’t thinking about that at the time. I know it’s not the
same thing, but my life has felt so stifling these days, like I’m on house
arrest. I wanted to be free, so I took the car for a drive. I found a small
cemetery pretty far outside of town, and just sat there on one of the stone
benches in the freezing cold. I’ve always felt rather comfortable in
cemeteries, probably because there usually aren’t very many other people
around. They make most people sad at best, and uncomfortable at worst. I go
there to think, but also to peruse the headstones. I like to see all the
different designs that they carve into them, and to note how many are grouped
in families. I have an obsession with time, as you know, so I also look for
the oldest grave, and do mental math on people’s lifetimes. Sometimes it
really is sad, like when the year of death is the same as the year of birth.
It was cathartic to go out alone, even though I really wasn’t supposed to. I
was feeling so trapped, but it was still wrong of me, and I received a proper
scolding from my security firm. I’m just still not used to being so attached
and dependent on others. I mean, that’s not really true, is it? My life has
always been a mess. I’ve always relied on others. Too much, truthfully. Money
was meant to change that about me, but it’s only made it worse. Man, if I
can’t ever go back home, it might be worth it just to escape this world, and
start over fresh somewhere else. What’s that, you say? My writing? How’s my
writing going? Does it help? No. It’s a nothing burger, as the
saying goes. I’m feeling very unmotivated to write anything; fact or fiction.
I think I’m probably gonna give up again.
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