26 March 2017

Walking dead.

Sometimes I feel like I'm already dead; dead inside.  Like I almost don't care at all anymore, but for that little cluster of threads still clinging to me; holding me fast to this life I never asked for.

My son has become aware of the dire state of his planet. He turns sixteen tomorrow.  He has little interest in the driver's license I ate, slept, and breathed for when I was that age, some thirty odd years ago.

I expected civilization was going to crash and burn in some apocalypse or another by the time I was his age; I can't imagine what he must be thinking, nor tell begin to tell him what I think he should do.