We live our lives with each other. We define home and safety with other people. Most people on Earth could not live – would not live – without at least one other person in the world. And that is so strange because most people don’t think about how much each other mean to us. You’re mother, father, friend, grandmother, boyfriend, girlfriend, significant other means something to you. Means everything to you. They might not need you, but you need them. They see you differently than you see yourself. They see the good, the bad the ugly. Even if you might just see the bad or ugly.  They see the spark, the light, the flame, the boom of your firework soul. I myself am barely living in my house made of each other. Because some people have left. And I have left his house of each other. And hers. And his.  I have disappeared. And I am falling apart. The walls are being held together with handfuls of pain killers. To stop my brain from calling out the broken windows and the cracks in the walls and ceiling. To stop my brain from reminding me it is all my fault. I have two choices. Repair my little home and grow. Or bulldoze it. And I haven’t decided yet. One person I need keeps knocking on my door in the middle of the night. When the moon is a mere shadow. But I stay in my deep dark sleep of lost, barely there pain. The sleep of the addicts, the sleep of the ones who have lost hope. Lately I’ve liked the bulldozing idea. But for now, I am going to sleep my sleep in the dark.  Crying out for help then becoming conscious that I am silenced by my dying brain.