When he grew old enough, he moved away from his family. He felt too misunderstood to stay. He regretted it a little bit and giving it another try was maybe even worth it. It wouldn’t make life better, though he might gain a few more experiences that might at least change how he saw things and helped him grow and develop. He felt like he had something to give others, nothing like a reason to live, but simply something to spend his time with while he was here. Everything he saw, thought and went through was useful in that regard. Nothing can be created from nothing and everything starts somewhere.

He moved around a lot, tried to see as many different things as he could. Taking it all in while he was able to, in a sane moment. This was one of them. His walks had become the definition of sanity to him, a little solace and most of all, a way to remind himself that he was still alive. They still happened, but there were less moments were he layed in bed motionless, staring up at the wooden planks on the ceiling, either empty minded or thoughts wandering aimlessly with no connection to the body. Forgetting about time, sometimes space and needs, while he spent hours thinking about nonchalant things like the boards on his ceiling and how they might be attached, since he couldn’t see any screws or nails holding it. He wondered how the ceiling was built, that usually was the thought it started with, he tried to imagine how it might have been done, tried to grasp the concept but never knew if it was realistic or not, because he was not a carpenter, didn’t know anyone he could ask and couldn’t be bothered to go to a library and lend a book about house building to look it up. No, he tried to come up with new ideas on how one might go about attaching wooden planks to a ceiling without visibly screwing them onto the beams that must be underneath -or from his perspective above- them. And then he forgot about the world around himself and got lost. He often found himself thinking the same things as last time, and the time before that and the time before that, as if his mind was too empty to come up with new things. As if either he didn’t have enough energy left to think creativily, or like he was dead. Creativity was something that belonged to the living, and while sometimes he had a lot of it, other times he didn’t. He just repeated the same thought processes over and over, like a machine that was stuck in a loop. A computer that tried to delete a file that is currently