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Tonight rather than do any of my homework (2 page reflection due tomorrow, final lesson plan due friday), I talked to some friends and watched stupid videos, and reread old poetry from high school and played around recording some of it.  I was thinking the quieter lonelier part of my night will be what my life is like if I stay abroad.  For some reason, I imagine I won't have a roommate... I see myself sitting on a mattress in a poorly decorated small apartment,  the only decorations will be stuff I have collected, charcoal and water color pictures I have done. I will sit there, playing a ukelele or a guitar I purchase. I will be strumming tunes poorly and singing or rapping old poems and songs. I will be desperately trying to stay busy, while purposely seeking to not be busy.  I will mess around in my own head and scribble increasingly insane notes, some of which I will scrawl on facebook and this here blog so as to document the deterioration. I will show up to work, whatever that looks like, determined and smiling to not let the mask slip, because it will be the only part of my day where human connection is demanded, and not a favor I do myself. Each night I will slip back into my craze, reading religious texts and science fiction. Planning futures and pasts.  I will be intruded upon by memories and feelings, and thoughts that I did not invite, that smack me around and call me back, anchors imbedded in my skull that once felt like hugs and now blunt trauma, and some days hugs, and some days I will allow them to pound me to sleep, fetal position, stained pillow.  I will wake up feeling drained and use this robot body to propel me through the day, I'll make some comment and someone will question in just the right way,  I'll spoon feed them my heart at first, a taste to see their reaction, and then when they seem satisfied I'll pour. Deluge, like the damned child I am.  As they disappear, I'll reconsider, buy a new suit and get into a new routine. I'll force feed myself nutrition. Shave my brazen face. Collect the soaked fragments, piece them back together, and change my salty pillow! The treasures will be stored somewhere, but nearby, a drawer, a cabinet, a dented box over expanded, easily accessible but no one will access them. I'll rededicate myself to the other, and people will wonder at my wisdom, call me an old soul, call me caring, call me.  And I'll answer, having taken the time to find who resides in my body.