Disrepair

Months later, his life had changed.

He knew that there had to be a turning point somewhere. It had probably occurred sometime in the blueprints of his memory. It was, after all, one of his last links to that point in the past where he once dreamt of work and steady income.

Now the work and the income were there, to be sure, but the sense of satisfaction hadn't quite caught up. The great machine had been built, yes, but somehow it wasn't working up to spec.

He found that it was difficult to do without the writing. The writing was an entire world to him, and he wasn't about to pack it up and store it in the hall closet. It was a strange solace from a faceless environment where people and places constantly asked for things. Days of work turned into weeks of support, which turned into months of wariness. The faminites proved insatiable, he mused.

In contrast, the writing never asked for anything. It was just... there.

He could give it up anytime he wanted. But what would that prove? Would he just dive into the sea of hands grasping at a piece of his soul? Would he sink further into an upholstered chair, listening to the drone of voices across frayed lines of communication? Would he bend, and break, and choke at the weight of foreign wills?

Each day the task became a little harder to bear.

There had been a turning point somewhere. At some time, some cog or sprocket in the grand machine of his plans had come loose.

After a while, he rolled up his sleeves and went looking for his toolbox. He needed a good-sized wrench, he thought. Perhaps something to the tune of five-eighths of an inch...