Seemingly, more than months have passed. Feeling out of touch with this ever-so-dramatic life style of mine has me house-ridden with no escape plan- besides a couple sultry nights a week where I can forget about which inexplicit events have taken place thirty minutes into the suburbs. It is not a lack of admiration, nor feeling of complacency for this beautiful acreage, but rather a lack of emotional content, or displacement; I can't seem to choose which fits more. When I want to engage in conversation, I'm berated for wanting too much besides television and carpooling, so in return, when I feel like keeping my mouth shut, I'm yelled at for having a piss-poor attitude and my incongeniality. Floodgates opening again, I feel lonely and misplaced-replaced by something I cannot grasp, longing for that one urge- that one nights escape to pull me away from all reality. I see him walking upstairs, not even thinking to say goodnight. I see him luxuriating in thousands of other words as he usually partakes in with everyone but me. And I'm supposed to settle for a car ride's worth of chatter. For Romeo, I wish, but the land is becoming barren as I try to meander my way around this desert- looking for every drop of drink.
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