Most days I can’t even look further into the past than the day the lights went out. It used to be only thoughts of my family (My mind dances along the edge of that concept, carefully avoiding real memories) that would send me spiralling out of control, but about a month ago I spent two days crying just because I remembered how the old man who bagged my groceries used to wish me a nice day.

The only good old days I can safely consider now are the ones back when I thought there would be others. I worried about them, of course. Would they be violent? Would I be better off without them? But I wished for them. Expected every day to meet them.

I guess it wasn’t til I got to California that I started to believe that I never would. I’ve been here a while now and have started to accept things. I don’t have to be careful with food. I keep telling myself that I’ll start a garden, but there are so many cans, and to be honest I don’t see the point. I do know to be really fucking careful with my glasses though.

There’s not much to do if you’re trying to keep yourself from remembering too much. Books are right out. I sleep a lot. Scavenge some, though like I said, there’s not much that I need. It used to be vaguely interesting to find new kinds of food; stocks of the same old thing can get boring, but I find that it doesn’t really bother me any more.

Every day I walk to the sea. I guess if there were anyone left, that’s where they’d be. On the other side? I wonder if they’re there.

Another idea I’ve flirted with is getting a boat.

This is a stupid idea. I don’t know the first thing about sailing. Boating? Driving a boat. I’m a midwestern girl, really. I don’t enjoy the idea of dying alone and thirsty and blistering in the sun.

Walking is pretty much it for me. It’s what I did. It’s what I do.

I’m walking toward the water now. I think about stopping and turning back, but I don’t really care to.