Cursed

I've walked this same path 382 times in the past six months. How do I know it's been that many times? I actually don't know, it just occurred to me. It would seem like I'd stick out like a sour thumb, with my long curly hair, and lack of coat, it's late December now and well below 40 degrees. Maybe my presence has finally been accepted and the people know when I'll be there. Maybe they notice when I'm not walking the usual path. But really why do I care anymore? They really never interacted with me, no more then a smile and a nod, but now nothing. Have all there feelings gone cold with the seasons? Perhaps, I never returned much more then a nod, really what can I expect? It's beginning to rain. I should head back home, but why? I know very well that in a matter of hours I'll find myself right back here, walking the same route for the 383rd time. It's almost funny to think about it, I hate this route so much yet I am trapped inside it. I don't even remember home anymore... It's almost as if I never go home. The only thoughts I can recall I have thought right here, on this worn path. Do I ever even go home? I can't seem to even be able to place a finger on the place I once lived, do I still live there? It seems like I've had this monologue before, but when? Everything blends itself so horribly together; I no longer even have much sense of time, or even day... Is it Wednesday? No, that was three days ago, but I know it's not Saturday. It doesn't matter anymore; I stopped having plans a while ago when I got stuck in the cursed loop. Neither days nor time has any meaning to me anymore. I'm free for a time, but what cost is that freedom?

The 1988 Ford Ranger screeched to a halt, but it was too late. There on the ground lay a young man, in nothing but a t-shirt and pants. His eyes did not look dead but you could tell he had already departed.