If found

Dear you,

My words are farther apart than they used to be.

I often forget where I began or where I'm going, instead simply wandering about these rhythmic idiosyncrasies. I'm not sure if the distance is literal or metaphysical.

Either way, I'm losing my grasp on the narrative. The (not so) Secret Life of Solstice Everston is on who knows what season by now; maybe it's been canceled. I'm not really sure. Ask the studio.

I'm beginning to think I spend most of my days simply attempting to determine where I am in the script.

Is this page forty four or sixty five?
What scene?
Is it supposed to be happy or sad?
Am I supposed to laugh here?

Who's writing this anymore- who's behind the keyboard? Where's the script editor? Did I write this? I don't remember writing this. I don't remember much of anything these days.

I was supposed to be making something of myself. That was the plan, correct? Did I misunderstand? Everyone told me they couldn't wait to see the films I'd make, the poetry I'd write, the life we'd collectively live. But, I'm here to confess:

I lost the script in a creek on the walk back home from school. At first no one noticed, and now no one cares. 

How much of a narcissist can I be to think this was all about me? About anyone but chance?

Who am I, and where did I leave her? She's not in the coat check or the lost and found. Yes, I retraced my steps. No, I can't buy another. I need her.