We don't talk about it anymore...

The moments of silence are gone. He runs from them into the rush of unimportant things, so filled is the quiet with the painful whispers of all that goes unspoken. Busy-ness is his drug of choice, numbing his mind just enough to keep him from dwelling on all that he fears he can't change. And the list of those things seems to get bigger with each passing day. Has he become a compilation of coping mechanisms? Has he become his fatigue? Unwilling or unable to cut himself free of this machine he has built, he's dragged in its wake all too quickly toward his. Wherever and whatever that may be.