Welcome to Blank

An emptiness. The inevitable destination.
(walking back through rain alone, dark streets, post-midnight hollows, a few drunk people expelled from bars I avoid like the plague, a sudden thought of sudden violence, but i realise they don't see me and i slip through without being noticed)
Back again.
A grey country, spreading like a slow flood, and this is where I am to remain, at least for a while, and perhaps longer. There is nothing here. Flat fields, scrubby bushes. The air is cold and tired and I cannot tell if that is sunlight or fever.
I must rest in these empty rooms.
I remember other empty rooms.
(a weekend in Worcester, spring 1998, and I lie on my bed, hollowed out with a mild devastation, and i do not leave my room for the whole weekend, and there is no meaning in these hours, and there is no reason for me to leave and i listen to the same album again and again (a band called Crisis, hardcore band with a female singer) looking for some kind of release. Slow release. Headache pills won't work on no headache, and I take - took - them anyway)
Four days I no longer want, at least not in the way I thought I did two days ago. There is sunlight outside that means nothing to me now. I could sleep but I don't feel tired. There is nostalgia, but it just reminds me of empty times. I remember a schizophrenic friend describing a state of mind in the afterlife - a place in his deep delusions he was familiar - and found some meaning - with - and this state of mind was called blank, which he called depression without depression.
Sunlight on the houses outside the window. Cool air, icy-pure with spring cold. Forthcoming Fire's first album playing. My room, with the curtains drawn far back, is light and open.
Hours elongate, spread into days and weeks, and all those landscapes of growing older.
Crossing the line.
Welcome to blank.