This is the story of how I came to be the only person living on the Moon. While that last sentence is true, it sadly does not live up to its potential. “Only person living on the Moon” has such a romantic quality to it, like it would be the kind of thing that you casually drop at a cocktail party and end up with people surrounding you at the end of the evening. The kind of story where people ply you with drinks to get a few more details, just for the bragging rights to their friends.
This isn’t that kind of story. This story is one of mistakes, errors, and oversights. This story is one of boredom, apathy, resignation, and eventual abuse of the system that got me here to keep me here. This is a story about exile.
I’d like to say it was about a great inner journey, filled with finding out things about myself, and in the process, life and others. I’m not that deep though, really I’m shallow. This is about running away, hiding, and shirking responsibilities.
I should probably start at the beginning, but that’s so boring to me and I don’t want to think about it yet, so I’ll start somewhere in the middle and see where it leads me. I wonder where the middle is though. I can’t peek to the end and see what happens so for all I know _this_ is the middle. I’ll start on my first day here on the Moon .