I was all that was left of us. Alone and lonely, insignificant. I was at the end of a cul-de-sac, listening to the roar of life out on the highway. A distant rumble as everyone else passed me by. They all felt they did enough after they dropped me quiches and said cheer up soon. A small deviation from the expressway of their life and then back into the fast lane. A few weeks was all they gave me to grieve, and then came an unspoken cut-off. Suddenly I was hanging onto it, being weird about it, I should move on already. They grew impatient, became short with me. They said I should see someone, a professional, and stopped coming around. Told me I was toxic. I was bringing them down.
Everything is easier out there, when you're hurtling down the motorway, making great time. People don't want to stop by to see the hermit living in his rut. They want to keep going, blinkers on, headlong into a dizzying array of jejune distractions, that fly past, and never stop.