Hollow Man

God I can’t wait to get back home. I miss the grey-trunked trees, the primeval forest, the barren mountainsides, the cold earth littered with dry, dead leaves, the nothingness of the stark, star-studded night sky, the silence of the hills, the yawning emptiness. The quiet loneliness of the land reflects my own sadness back at me. The river winds its millennial path through the valleys, slipping over rocks and washing memory and emotion away with its cold clear waters. I need the emptiness; the soft, caressing touch of the invisible ether soothes my soul. The cold hard ground comforts me. The dead weather surrounds me and comforts me in my solitude and introspection. I need the crisp, clean air, the hushed stillness of desolation, the absence of any sort of love or care. These things fill my hollow husk of a heart. These things bring me what might be described as a kind of joy and peace. There are no judgments there, no reprisals, no longing or ambition. There is only the vacuum of space and time. I am aware that my heart is turning to stone. I am aware that I receive no love because I give no love. I am broken and I don’t care. And the mute mountains don’t care either. We were made for each other. I am the silent grey mountain and the silent grey mountain is me.