The Old Place Ain't Home No More.

Old images used to haunt me but not really, not anymore. All the horrors mean nothing anymore and I no longer have the same dreams. I'm altered almost completely and without doubt and yet not at all. I can't see the dimness of the road ahead, but it doesn't matter to me. The old sadness clings, like a dying friend but now perhaps we have become each other. Parasitic in our inseparability. I remember the old place, the oranges and the grass and the little tunnels with dead leaves. I remember that as the last time I ever felt peace. I also remember I can never make that place exist again, that it's been sullied. That it's gone. But so what? I find myself saying. Whatever mattered doesn't matter anymore. Whatever I loved is and has always been a lie, whatever I dreamed of is no more than a nightmare that knows all the stupid little workings of my mind, whatever I am is unfit to survive for long. Time will keep me together but only for a while. And that while I suppose makes all the difference in the world.