One man went to mow.

Wednesday 27th January

I'm beginning to worry myself.

I've come up with a few stories over time, but a hell of a load of them all have a very similar theme. I've mentioned it a few times but it's strange how often this comes up in my tales, in fact are the basis of my stories.

See, there's one I'm writing now about a space marine who gets blasted out of a ship in the course of a botched rescue mission and ends up floating through space pondering the universe.

There's another one about a science experiment with people cut off from the world for a couple of years.

There's one about literally the last person alive on the planet, without any of that gubbins with zombies or vampires, literally the last person alive.

I've a few more, but it stuck me this morning about how I'm writing stories about separation, loneliness and being completely alone.

It's not like I'm writing for LiveJournal here, with painting the walls black and thoughts about cutting myself. I'm attempting to write them in a humerous way but it's strange that this theme keeps popping out of my head in different ways in different stories.

Is it something to do with me? Am I breaking out these things because there's a niche there or is it that's what's roaming my subconscious since I left work? I'm writing them because they smell like interesting stories to me but is it because there's something in the root brain of us all that we're all alone in our own heads?

Like a running gag that somebody tries to keep going long after it stops being funny for anybody else I'm stuck on it, and probably until I finish one or two of them I won't be able to move onto something completely different from it.

I don't know, and I'm not really that worried about it, but I do find it interesting.