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Exiled

September 17, 2011

Imagine being exiled from all that you hold dear.

You’re alone.  No, there are others, but they’re idiots. You start conversations that go nowhere.  They have no idea what you’re talking about.  You speak one language, and they another, English, but not.

All that you own is gone, no toys, nothing to keep your mind occupied.  Books and e-reader to take you to far-off imaginary worlds, gone.  Computers and techie devices to keep you amused, gone.  Soccer balls and basketball and hockey stick and glove and bike and scooters, gone.  Couch and chair and bed and tables and lamps and desk, gone.  Pants and shorts and shirts and belts and shoes and socks, gone.

You can no longer visit Joshua Tree and climb the rock piles.  You can no longer bike the trails in LaVerne or Cucamonga or Yucaipa or Loma Linda.  You can no longer swim at the pool or the ocean.  You can no longer go to the theater or put in a video.  You can no longer drive to a restaurant or cook your own food.

All that once was is now gone.  You’re exiled, locked behind cinderblock walls, with no key to the door, and wondering how you got there.

Then, you awake to the beep-beep-beep of your alarm and crawl out of bed to find alligators swimming in the waters at your feet…

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