Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 7

did not trust his thoughts while his emotions were in play, he left the security systems online as he left the building, ensuring his safety and to quieten the panic clawing his heart.
    CHAPTER 2 – The Staring
    I am the king of no-mans-land. Between all of my positions and roles lies my barren Earthly plain, containing only the native wildlife and forests. Within this, I have had the space to think and contemplate my existence. Education and work became entirely dependent on my thought: when stagnant, they would suffer; when active, they – and I – flourish.
    So you could say that I have had things planned. I forbade any clichéd notion of the white picket fences or one-point-eight-nine children found in the storybooks in the library, and instead compiled and ordered my personal goals. My teachers were right about something: with all this planning, I achieved everything I set in my mind to do. Even if they only said this because of my future position in the county. And even though some used this advice to betray us all.
    Yet, I am still living my dream. These dreams have saved me for all these years. No harm can pass through the boundaries into my haven in the depths of Northern England. No criticism can break my tranquillity; only the birds may twitter a melody after dawn, after the cockerel crows thrice, welcoming me in my dependant solitude. The gravel and dirt may crunch, crack and click as I walk by through stubborn tracks, and doors may bang as I pass through, but nothing can shatter the sanctuary I have created.
    Not even the "tomes of knowledge vital for the nation" that I've been charged to safe keep because of my immortality, although the importance of all that fiction (ground floors and higher) in the library is beyond my understanding. Moreover, I maintain to be an integral part of the Northern County council. Therefore, I have all I could ever need in the place of my deceased family.
    And you can't feel emptiness or silence, so they don't matter to me in the slightest.
    ~ Jeremy, November 13th, Journal Number -
     
    After he came home through the concealed pathway from the library, Jeremy finished his journal entry. He found the process of writing down his thoughts an excellent way to keep track of, and moderate, his thoughts and emotions; to minimise any that may be undesired or that could impede his decisions and Responsibilities. A cathartic process, his tutors had said, and a method to continue practicing his writing, off the job.
    Nevertheless, as he lay writing, leaning back on the headboard of his bed, the silence screamed at him. An indifferent chill oozed over the large emptiness in the remaining space of the bed, creeping closer. Only the scraping nub of his pen on paper in his leather bound diary whispered to the air until he finally stopped writing. The mask of serenity remained unbroken on his fair features.
    He was still distressed. The gnawing feeling continued to eat at his gut and push agonisingly against his stomach and lungs, shattering his reverie. There was nothing else to do, and he could not risk another emotive episode again. Feeling on edge, living, is not a healthy position to be in.
    Standing with a sudden precision, his feet touched the ground with no sound. Jeremy left his softly illumined bedroom and crossed the hallway to deposit his writing implements in their respective drawers and shelves on the oak sideboard piece. He journeyed downstairs to the split open plan living room and kitchen. His home was large by old standards, but was a palace for any other person, with a few thousand square feet of space personally designed and built by Jeremy decades ago with the aid of his now deceased family members.
    He sat on an overstuffed chair in the living room, standing comfortably by the wall with the iron-sheltered fireplace gluttonously roaring with a golden flame. He gazed though the gallery style windows at the back of his property to the field and woods beyond it. The sight always astounded him and reminded him of the magical stories stored in the library.
    In the twilight, laid back in the deep seat, he watched the flickering flames in the fireplace cast golden globes on the shining glass. Most shimmered, but some danced with consistency. Jeremy took great liking in following two globes float slowly across the glass like eyes in the night. His thoughts slowed as the globes died as they left the glass edge, and he slept.
    His last conscious thought was to get some