Stranger In a Strange Land

Now life spurns me, granite and absolute; flinches at my touch, hardens visibly at my voice, morphed to dry-ice opiate in my presence. Avoidance of the plague, ducks and dives prizefighterly, evasive bob and weave, skirting contact, lest it's fabric may somehow contaminate. Spoken words, when life stoops to speak them, are naked critiques, each phrase select paradigms of contempt. Didn't life love me once? Didn't the feeblest jest elicit laughter? It held my hand so tightly in erotic pleated lap; kissed me full on the lips; whispered it wanted me, my paramour. Didn't it? Emotional plates somehow shifted gravity, heart aligned a different axis; looking back at only the bad; grudges swollen, the ink sacs of poisonous squids, arcane black injections of hateful disdain. I am but a stranger in the strange land of the heart; an alien orphan umbilical to a memory; stranger in the world. I drown at leisure in quagmires of anguished tears and muted screams; defencelessly, with only my selfishness, nothing more than a dream in the head of a dying man. My feigned indifference, the winch dragging forth the dying day...