This Place

I guess this captures my mood right now. Not really sure why though.

I have been lost, wandering, for years, decades, days. You lose all sense of time in this place, where nothing meets nothing, meets burnt sky. I no longer feel hungry, or thirsty, or tired, or alone, but sometimes, at my very best, I remember what these things felt like, once upon a time.
Because there was a time, before this moment, there was a world that wanted me in it, where I could walk and smile, and meet the eyes of people that loved me. A time when I could complain too much about a job that wasn't half bad, and that I was quite good at. I recall soft rains, and cool breezes, and fiery foods that made me sweat with pleasure.
Chemicals they were, sensations, that is. Bizarre cocktails of hormones and pheromones and stranger things, harder to pronounce and pin down, they spun through my brain, pushed and pulled me, provoked and restrained me. For a short time after I woke up, I took solace in the fact that here, though I could do nothing else, I could think clearly.
I can't even do that any more, or maybe I can, but I don't care to, for I have no one with whom to share my insights, nowhere to write for nobody to read. I just plod, ever onward, towards the nothing of the horizon, the thin black line that tries to define my surroundings, but succeeds only in emphasizing the emptiness that it so valiantly struggles to contain. It moves with me, of course, for that is the way of horizons, to stay some three miles out of reach.
Once I came across a house, it was square and white, with clapboard siding and old windows of thick, muddled glass. Inside there were lits burning, but when I knocked on the door no one answered. I thought about breaking in, tempted by the notion of a bed, as opposed to bare, cold ground, sloping slightly (ever so slightly) out from under me. Just as I was about to break a window, however, I was overcome with a great fear. Not that I would be caught, quite the contrary, that I would enter to find that it was only an illusion, nothing could be produced here, and there was nowhere for it to have come from, save that it fell from behind the shadow of one of the wisps of cloud that flit tantalizingly over head from time to time.
So I turned my back on that place, and I continued to walk. I consoled my self with the thought that at least, if I see it again, I should know that I have been walking in circles all along.
I had a dream last night, though I say night like it has objective meaning, really it is just that arbitrary time when I cease, at last, to be able to place one foot in front of the other, and must lie down, for a few hours at least. I say dream, too, though they are not the escapes that I once fell into with pleasure. Now they are wisps of thought, like the clouds, fragile things wafting gently across the backs of my eyes.
In the dream there was a man, hunched and gray, save for where scabs peeled back from his face and arms, revealing fresh pink skin underneath. He was wrapped in a cloak, and held a staff, and his tangles of gray hair whipped about him in some etheric breeze.
“You are doing well.” he said to me.
“This is well?” I think I responded, or maybe that's what I meant to say, “I should hate to see poorly.” at that I like to think that he smiled.
“You're alive, and sane, and you have only just now begun to build.”
“Build?”
“You will see.”
Indeed, this morning (I say morning...) I awoke on a bed of soft grass, though it faded beneath the faintest scrutiny.