Lying in the bed of curling brown leaves. Their half decomposed smell fills his nostrils and he lets the fetid air fill his lungs. He feels alone, empty and dead. He has so much in common with this patch of ground he's lying on. The ground knows what's coming, it knows what will happen, it knows it purpose, and it has no choice but to accept it, as he knows that he has no choice but to fall into his purpose. The damp begins to soak though his light t-shirt and he shivers, a strange motion, as he's half debilitated by the lethargic apathy that had overcome him. He doens't really want to die, and he sure as hell doesn't want to live. What really is life? Life for him is the purpose which he surrendered himself to some years ago, to help others, to be selfless, and to do what needed to be done and trust that it would all work out. His personal health is his own problem, he can't talk to anyone he has to creatively express it and by lying in this patch of leaves he hoped that they would connect the ground with which he lay and the way in which he felt. But it would never happen, he'd always be silent, never speaking of him self, never admitting that he truly cares. And he will have his ups and downs, as currently he's down he will then be on a high, his bipolar disorder has become almost predictable, but of couse no more enjoyable. But really, what does he enjoy....

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