sr: Where I always End Up

I came across an old writing of mine. When I feel depression lingering in my head, writing is what I do. Originally what I'm supposed to do with the writings is burn them, but I actually went and typed them out for my typing is getting to the point that its a fast as my thinking. So I saved it, and forgot about it until just finding it at this moment. Lately I've been forgetting where my mind used to be, and can still go. I supposed thats a good thing. But I must acknowledge it. The harsh realities of that past cannot be forgotten, but at the same time they are not in control. I know most of you don't care. (of whatever readers I have) But, I ain't sharing for you, in fact its for me I'm doing this. To speak of it freely and candidly means its no longer in power to control, or at the very least is about to lose that power. And for those avid readers I may have, "sr:" in the title heading is now going to stand for "Serious", just so you know what you may read before you actually read it. And so, here it is ...

I don’t know if it’s a place where I always end up, or a place I never left. All I know is that is where I am. My childhood home; and its empty. There are no chairs, no pictures, no books, no shelves, no aroma of freshly cooked food, not even a single spec of dust on the tile floor. I’m the only one there, in the vast, bare living room, glaring out the wall size window. The tiles on the floor are cold, as is the air that fills the room. It’s a dream, or a vision, or simply a thought, but nevertheless it’s where I am, always. Sometimes I see a single tear drip from my eye as I glare at the outside world. Other times, I’m in a rage, screaming, yelling; throwing myself about like a madman. But I’m always seeing myself. I’m never actually a part of what I see. Never actually feeling what at that moment, I see.
It’s an image so vivid, that one thought of it blocks out all voices, sounds, temperatures of the real word I’m engaged in, completely. No sense of reality prevails this dream, this vision, this thought. It consumes me whole like a blackhole for the universe that is the mind. It’s an image, that although it’s in my head, that when I think of it, it becomes my reality. I feel the cold floor, the damp air, the crushing sense of loneliness the dwells in that house, my house, my childhood home.
I don’t know if this is a place where I always end up, or a place I never left.