I do doubt whether I have ignored my own feelings for too long. I couldn’t tell whether I’m homesick, or lonely, or just sad. There are no perceptible distinctions. There is just a cluster of dark dots that cloak all of them underneath.
I think that I have done well fencing myself against any access to the olden emotional depths. The pitch is deserted, sequestered, covered in black and cold. Sometimes I don’t even remember its existence. What is left of me is not much. A disguised balance maybe. And also a sense of precariousness. A very hazy fear of a sudden, eternal, free fall.
It should be true that I do not have the ability to be hurt more than I had been. That’s why I’ve come here, to hide, from the drenching dream, from thorns of that vision of unattainable reality. Regardless of crashing into this unavoidable isolation from lights. Everything does have its price.
I also don’t know when, but it might be very long until I could forgive myself for my impotence. Maybe never. But the view that living is so difficult has its right to end, like humans have their right to suicide. Even a most pitiable escapee should set a goal, to reach which means to successfully deceive herself from dejection.
Then, this is a there, if it is acceptable to say there is a bubble of hybrid shelter. What to do next is to figure what to do within this there.
