you own three offroading vehicles. you cannot remember officially purchasing one. you do not have titles for them. you have four offroading vehicles.
the sun disappears for months at a time. you wake up in the dark. you leave your home in the dark. you return home in the dark. the darkness is ever-present. it blankets you. it comforts you. do not think about what is in the dark
the sun doesn’t set for months at a time. it follows you, heavy and sullen. you cannot hide from it. you cannot escape. it follows. it waits. you may never sleep again.
you wear flannel and xtra tuffs over jeans and a t-shirt. is this is what you have always worn? you can’t remember. your closet contains nothing else.
tourists are everywhere.
they leave a trail of garbage behind.
they flood the roads. they choke the rivers. they are in your home, smiling, cameras ready. you cannot escape.
you are constantly reminded how small and insignificant you are by the mountains and the tundra and the endless sky. you feel like you are alone, but are you really? the cracking in the forest suggests otherwise.
the state promises you money every october. the check disappears before ever being deposited into your account. you own five offroading vehicles.
there are sounds outside your home at night. your security lights blink on but there is nothing there. your nearest neighbor is half a mile away.
you drive a vehicle that has a new dent every few weeks, whether you’ve hit anything or not. you don’t walk anywhere. you drive and drive and drive, but you have not arrived at your destination. there are only the mountains.
you systematically kill every mosquito inside your home. when you turn off the lights and go to bed, you hear the tell-tale wavering whine. your skin prickles and begins to itch. you scratch and scratch and you are still itchy. you’re bleeding and you can still hear them.