Write your life as though it were fiction pt 3

(because I’m getting all too good at removing myself from myself)

He went home again. His parents had worried him recently with their slip towards dependency. His father no longer walked with stick, but he began to realise that his parents had other crutches and more subtle dependencies. Barely an hour could pass without some seemingly mundane request for help. He found it wearying, and yet they were his parents.

Whilst he was home he thought about his flat in the big city. Silently it waited for him. He thought about the emptiness of it. No one waited for him back there. In a funny way it made him glad to be wanted, but he felt sick at the thought of having to meet someone else’s needs. Some sort of malaise hovered at the edge of his thoughts. A choice between facilitating dependency or tending towards loneliness.

Twice in the last twelve months, dear friends had moved away to other countries and now another was going. He wondered about this diaspora. How tenuous friendships could be when conducted through wires and pixels. He wondered at the complexity of it all.

He returned to his flat in the city. Bought milk from the corner store, listened to the whispering cadence of the fridge in the kitchen, observed the moon through the skylights. He wondered about where he might end up and what might constitute home for him. The buzz of the computer fan offered up no answer.

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