Stranger at Home

Its strange being home. Everyone asks me how my year has been and I have no answer but a generic 'good' and a wide, vacant smile. They say how much I must have missed the Island, and I give give a non-committal nod of the head and change the subject. It is hard, because until they mention the fact that I have been away, I feel like no time has passed at all...because now the seasons are different and I can only tell how much time has past by the fact that I have grown, and the little stickers on the back of the car. Its as though I've been transported to the future, and I can look at the newspaper of next year, and view the city a year ahead of schedule. If I was on more drugs, I'd think it was magic haa.

But I don't like it. I'm so tired of this half-life; of the mind-numbing drugs and the time gaps and the even wider gaps between my old friends. I want to scream that this is enough already! I have proved that I can handle this, I have suffered and proved time and time again that I can handle this. I have been tested; haven't I passed? Can't I just be fixed now and go back to the way things were without many changes? Who am I screaming to...are they listening?

Where is that old life? Where does the time go? To a vacuum? Into a vault? A vault in our minds? How cruel that my own vault is empty of the present, that the time and the life are all gone. All spent. Where does the time go?