(Henry David Thoreau)
When every step outside in the poisoned air makes me feel just a little sicker, when my throat closes over and it feels like I've been trying to swallow glass, it's better to stay at home, it's better to abide by the lockdown (a movement control order by any other name would feel just as restrictive), it's better to be alone, but for the cats.
And being alone gives me acres of time to think. When I'm not sleeping or watching Ashes of Love and feeling sorry for the Night Immortal because he became was an outsider and only managed to make himself more of one by trying to force his way inside. So delicate, so precise, so peaceful, so heartbroken. And in the end he gained everything and lost everything. Alone in a vast hall, cold, austere, lonely.
My thoughts circle in various rutted grooves with some new ones. I realise that I don't have love in my life because at the very core of my being, I don't believe I deserve it. Like I'm rotten and unworthy and even if you can't see it, well, if you can't see it, I'll show you, I'll tell you and then I'll pull away.
I'm comfortable in this vast empty hall by myself. I've been alone for a month and a half now and maybe I'm starting to unravel, I don't know. It could be. Which is why I feel like this.
Funny how things can change from minute to minute. Funny how human beings want comfort and warmth and certainty.
What kind of monster prefers to be alone?
What kind of monster feels the world needs to be protected from her?
Nothing I do will ever make me worthy. I can't scrub out this feeling that taints everything inside me.
Not good enough.
Never good enough.
When every step outside in the poisoned air makes me feel just a little sicker, when my throat closes over and it feels like I've been trying to swallow glass, it's better to stay at home, it's better to abide by the lockdown (a movement control order by any other name would feel just as restrictive), it's better to be alone, but for the cats.
And being alone gives me acres of time to think. When I'm not sleeping or watching Ashes of Love and feeling sorry for the Night Immortal because he became was an outsider and only managed to make himself more of one by trying to force his way inside. So delicate, so precise, so peaceful, so heartbroken. And in the end he gained everything and lost everything. Alone in a vast hall, cold, austere, lonely.
My thoughts circle in various rutted grooves with some new ones. I realise that I don't have love in my life because at the very core of my being, I don't believe I deserve it. Like I'm rotten and unworthy and even if you can't see it, well, if you can't see it, I'll show you, I'll tell you and then I'll pull away.
I'm comfortable in this vast empty hall by myself. I've been alone for a month and a half now and maybe I'm starting to unravel, I don't know. It could be. Which is why I feel like this.
Funny how things can change from minute to minute. Funny how human beings want comfort and warmth and certainty.
What kind of monster prefers to be alone?
What kind of monster feels the world needs to be protected from her?
Nothing I do will ever make me worthy. I can't scrub out this feeling that taints everything inside me.
Not good enough.
Never good enough.
