My mouth is dry as I recount my thoughts sleep seems so far from here. Where is here but a passage in time, a breath emptying upon a page to speak little of recognition or rememberances. If I drift I am forgotten and yet if I remain no more can you find me than I can find myself.

I looked into her eyes, a mother of two devasted. Her son had ptsd and who was to blame? A war and a systems inability to offer enough service for those that give their lives. She came for help and my position demanded I send her elsewhere. I lent troubled eyes my ears for an hour or two. Threats had been made, nervous breakdowns clear for we each have been there destroying things that we treasure all for some sort of balance, to throw wreckage at our lives, to make what is seen as what is felt from within. She wanted someone to help him but he had a DUI, wrecked his ride she said and her other son was in prison. Dire times and the world ticks on so much unaware of ones crisis and a mothers tears. Pistols in a locked case and arguments strung with rage over images that aren't there, war destroys us piece by piece, the bullets fly half way across the world and this is what lands in my cup of joe. So behind on paperwork, I need to get rid of her but I can't. Is this compassion, is this what it means to pity or sympathise with our fellow man. Tissues are passed and tears are shed. The only outcome is 51/50 if he is still at home but she mentioned packed duffles, she mentioned nowhere to go, perhaps another homeless kid.

The world meshes back together as a stranger in tears hugs me. I go up to the counter to help someone else as the secretary stepped away. Are they helping anyone, why must I break away from my cocoon. Deep breath, we are part of a collective, we depend on one another and yet I think at times this limb has become green and must be loped off. The guy at the counter tells me I have something on my face. I wipe my face per his gestures and he imitates again. I thank him as he says its still there and then pauses to say its only the scar on my face. Is eyesite so bad, did he think it would be such an injustice for me to have something on my face.

This reminded me of the elderly woman that reached across a counter one time to touch my face. The scar is barely visable but she said she needed to wipe something of my face. It made me twitch, repulsion filled me to the brim and I boiled over. She was old pushing 80 or was it 90. Got to let these things go I say, but they surface now and again and somehow I barely see the ticking stroke of another day gone.

I did not manage to make it to the gym or tae kwon do today. Felt as though the emotion drain ate thru every nerve and sinew of my being. I passed out for an hour after watching something on hulu. I joined a writers forum in Sacramento through Craigslist but never really go. I find time enough to delete the invitations as if it helps me belong to something. Is it the same as going if I delete an email. These thoughts swim within the pools of my eyes.

My tongue still hurts, my nose is cold, and I just can't seem to look forward to tomorrow. Don't misunderstand this for depression, depression is not nature and thus I can not look forward to tomorrow for it is not in my nature to consider tomorrow. But still for a 23 year old needing a break from the hard knocks of life I can hope he has a tomorrow, I can hope that no one makes reference to a scar on my face, I can hope for those pizza fridays in gradeschool when life was recess and no one died.