Recursive

         I've never been good at explaining myself. An empty feeling always rises over me, looming like a tidal wave stopped in time just waiting to crash. Then again explaining the empty feeling with something tangible may not be apt. The explanation feels as empty as the next line.

         The ceilings is still white, relevant news maybe not, but interesting none the less. My nose catches the venison in the other room being browned before being inserted into the big white pot with the rest of the ingredients. I don't like the onions. They stick out like a needle in a haystack, stabbing those who dare to find it, striking your mouth with an overwhelming flavor that hinders the other ingredients. Or maybe that's just me running laps in my own head, because lord knows that's all I do is go over the same old shit over and over. A function within a function if you will. Though a good programmer would tell you there needs to be an escape placed after so many iterations or it will go on infinitely. Hell even a bad programmer would tell you that. Sadly there is no escape.
         "Scott!" my father screams. My ears bludgeoned by the noise, tell my body to get up. I make it to the kitchen at a slow pace. The dirt collects on the floor like mold: dirty soles.
         "Yea?"
         "What the hell did you just say" my dad asks, turning his head.
         "Sir?"
         "Better; go out to the truck, I need a can of dip" my father commands in a low tone. My feet steadily get back into the rhythm of walking. Opening the white door, the scenery gets no more exciting. A fence draws around the small yard encapsulating it from everything outside this bum fuck nowhere I exist in. As I walk out to the truck it's like a stiff wind hits me, sending chills throughout my body, my skin, my toes, my nose, forcing me into a shiver. As I turn my head to the direction of that oh so cold wind I see there hanging, a body. A body that only I can see. The smell of onion hits my nose again. The body hangs from a noose woven with ideals and opposition. Or that's how it seems. The only way I could really explain it was like                    . My tongue catches in my throat. I drown on the words that have for so long kept me alive. Maybe I should have changed myself instead of trying to change the world. My father would agree. As well as everyone else. Drowning is my punishment. My stomach flips. Green acid falls to the concrete spreading like a plague across the dull grey drive way. Infecting it with me, as I try to burn through whats already in place. I guess its not time... yet.