My Mother is sick. She has been sick for a while, actually.

It didn't ever feel right to talk about. To even think about. It would feel like complaining, even if I never voiced my dissatisfaction. I don't have much time for the internet anymore. I'm taking care of her a lot of the time. It's an adjustment, but not as much as I thought it would be. She yells at me sometimes. It's routine. It's comforting.

I've been staring at the walls. It's easy to believe, when I do, that there's nothing beyond these walls. This house is more alive than my Mother at this point. I feel bad for it. We're cannibalizing it, living within it parasitically. The trash has started to reach the outside of the house.

It's starting to become clear that this isn't sustainable. But, then again, was it ever?