I Shook It With an Urgency.

He was beginning to feel like a piece of the continent fractured millions of years ago; drifting into the sea away from what he knows. It's as though he's become something unthought of while so enclosed within himself. The structure of his life maleviolent and everchanging within the confines of solitude. A piece of himself is missing; he's worried it isn't what's inside himself that makes up what he is. He's worried he is made up of that which he once surrounded himself with. And now what surrounds him is ever present memory. He's not so sharp anymore. Not so keen. He's dull and waning and wondering. He's overly kind, probably boring, and drumming his support muscles into aching pain. It hurts to lift a pillow. A sense of internal disappointment builds with each social interaction, prompting an increase in isolation. He thought he'd be stronger than this. He thought he'd be the toast of the world. He didn't know that the network of friends he'd created in the past was a form of life support. It's a good thing in a way: to realize you need everyone you love. But to be away is like the pangs of the phantom limb. Laughter that isn't there. He longs to stem the continental drift within himself. He is the piece that is missing. He wanders further from the whole. Oh, sad sack bloated with memories, this mind that tortures.