Without an Ending... He seemed confused. All he ever wanted seemed to be only a dream - an aspiration dwelling somewhere between himself and the depth of space...the depths of space was more logical. It was easy to grasp the inability of his "potential" yet his potential was easily defined by the persistance of his will. Brilliance seemed to be nothing that was inherited but was acquired by perseverance and duty. These thoughts lingered in his head during his sessions of self reflection - the only thing that did not develop into a substantial burden, so pleasure and relaxation was found as well as accumulations of self confident and assurance. It was day 3. He needed to discover a way to assort his thoughts quickly in order to pursue some kind of rationalization which could lead to action, action in which he could not perform himself nor find the courage to delay, so the sole obsession left to do was think. Thinking seemed to be the only thing he had, the only thing he could call his own since his daughter died. There was no time to ponder on the past now, the crash seemed to cloud his thoughts making it difficult to think logically. He had to focuss. Maybe thinking was his since he had more time, more room to think, more silence. Optimism helps you grow. He knew this. Yet his 9 hour shift for Blessings Mini Mart stole his hope or any bit of optimism left in him. Reflecting made it so hard sometimes that he often felt his heart bleed in an effort to recover the past or maybe it was rediscover - everything was so darn baffling. In the midst of his session of self pity the phone rang.. "Hello?" It was a strangely familiar voice on the other line but what the heck everything seemed peculiar these days. The thought of getting out more suddenly flashed in his head. "Hello..." he replied, rather outwardly dry and unenthusiastic but subliminally he knew it felt good to talk to someone after three hot days of confinement. "Jon...its so nice to hear from you, it's Mary....Mary-Beth..you know from Miller avenue?" Her voice was apologetic but stern almost as if she was set on a mission to cheer him up and his lack of interest would not have made much of a difference. "Oh yes, Mary-Beth, thanks for calling...very considerate of you...," his voice grew weaker by the word until he had no breath left to finish his sentence. Don't do this again, he reminded himself and took a deep breath, mustering just enough courage to endure the "conversation". "So, how are you Jon?" He knew exactly what she meant. This is the reason why he left the city where all his friends and family were and moved to Muerto Rio, a little village on the outskirts of nowhere. He wanted to be alone, to immerse into quietism probably a way of evading the past and its inevitability---the "Real World" produced too many "real people" and "real events" which developed into real pain. "Jon?" The eerie, inquisitive voice stole him from his world. "Yes, yes im here." "How ARE you Jon, is everything alright with you,where are you exactly?" He wanted to say to her - why the heck are you so nosey, its none of your business, but managed to mutter "Im fine....really" instead. "Listen, Mary, I have some work to do, trying to get back into the spirit of writing which is why I'm out here away from Eshu Village, to collect my thoughts and throw them into a hopefully successful novel...if you don't mind..." The lies just kept flowing like the lava from a volcano which was full of potential energy recently converted into kinetic after an explosion. There was no hope for his writing now, unless he expected to compose something near to a thriller or maybe a tragedy of a family that was shattered by a car crash, leaving the father of a teenage daughter and the husband of a wonderful wife alone in an empty world. He was doing it again. "Mary?" "...uh yes ok that's fine...I'll uh...talk to you some other time, good-bye," before he could respond she hung up the phone with a tinge of disappointment in her voice as she whispered good-bye. Peace and quiet again, he thought, but deep down he knew that this was not what he needed. Recovery did not come through isolation, it was a hypocritical way of dealing with situations, but it was his only way to seek consolation...the silence rocked him to revitalization. This will certify that the above work is completely original. Kristal Kelly-ann Manswell