Nothing Changes

I've worn out my writing chair, and the pillow and pillow case that I use for lumbar support. I prefer a certain amount of discomfort, it keeps me aware of my surroundings. First night above freezing in forever. A token fire in the stove, burning garbage, junk mail and cardboard. It's quiet. I expect the First Frog Fuck-Fest during the Non-Family Reunion, looking back, the timing is right. I get over things, we all do, trashing the driveway was childish. But maybe it was important for reasons I don't understand. I live here and nothing else matters. Maybe if I lived somewhere else and wanted to make a point I'd do something that I knew would upset someone, but access is an important issue. I'm invested in this place. I haven't slept in a week, the edges are blurring, I think about other places I might live, how I would conduct myself. Certainly I'll never be beholding to another human being. Ever. I'll shoot myself first. I can barely deal with my own vagrancies. An algorithm for solitude, a formula for disaster, but what's left? The lesson is that I know what's required and never wanted to go there. Doesn't mean I can't. I see that the problem is me, that I need to be another step removed, another level of deniability. I could live in a hut and only eat berries, live in a tent and only eat road-kill, I'm fine with that, seems natural. I was walking up the driveway tonight, thinking, poking the damage with a stick. I never wanted to be responsible for anyone else and I refuse it now, the burden. I'm shed of that shit. Take it to the mountain. What I will not be. Another sex of perfect fot prints. Perfectly confused. Nothing makes any sense.