I remember when I use to feel. And think. Now I go through the motions. I don’t know what I do day in and day out. I feel automated. I feel like my life is not my own. How did I end up here. Am I alright?

Am I comfortable with myself? Could I let someone love me? I hate sounding weak. I like feelings. In my chest. Good feelings. Bad feelings. I can’t feel. So I try to feel bad and I hope that it will remind me that I’m alive.

I want to feel good. I’m on the bus to Buffalo, NY. I’ll be attending the PBL National Leaders conference. I don’t feel like me. I don’t like where I’m at. Landmark is not where I want to be. It is not. It doesn’t make me feel any better that this is only a stepping stone. It’s a shitty stepping stone. Not where I want to be. Its raining out. The drive is 8 hours. We stopped twice. I had a shitty salad and a roast beef sandwich from roy rogers. I paid over eleven dollars. I want a woman to make me feel. A touch. A hug. A kiss. I want to tell her I love her.

I’m going on this trip with people who are beneath me. Their value is at my level. They are human and have feelings—but they are not on my level. They lack the curiosity, the yearn for adventure and love and life and creativity.

There was a man. He had 8 brothers and sisters. They played sports and were all stars. He had the reading level of an 8th grader. He doesn’t drink or smoke. He watches sports on TV. He’s a huge fan. He plays Nintendo. He’s very protective of his stuff. He is enthusiastic and a little weird. His name is Bill. He has a sister with a 3rd grade mentality. He does to work. Comes home. Prepares an easy dinner to share with his sister. He attends alcohol anonymous meetings. And he sleeps.