Well, I saw it today and confirmed that they’re all insane.

Every last one.




But I don’t have any room to talk about the insanity of others.

See, I found him again. Over the past three days it’s what I have done.


In bitter things I have said and in falling asleep in my stained, woolen coat with the threadbare cuffs and in songs and in the catch I still feel in my chest when I think about what used to give me words. And now again I feel the doubleness that I’ve got so accustomed to that I can’t function without it.


It was like…I was not.



Like going to a room where I knew he should be because I was there, and stopping short in the doorway because no one is there. Or sensing someone walk up behind me, and experiencing that sudden cold when I turned and there was nobody.


Like reaching in the dark and expecting to touch fur, and finding emptiness. And at the same time, expecting the sensation of fingers curled in my coat, and feeling nothing. We could not find each other. Did not know where we were, so consequently, we were nowhere.


But I feel like I’ve caught myself again. I feel better.



I have to find what I am doing again now. I think if I can only remember what it was I had first intended, I will be okay. No more of this sullen nonsense. It’s hard though. I keep thinking that it will come to naught, or something worse…but I don’t know anymore.


It was just those four words that sent us rocketing away from each other, I think. I can’t afford to say such things. Like the offhand ones are always so much worse than the deliberate. Drives me insane.



I have trouble with deliberate.

I think about it all the time, and have thought through four generations of it, but it’s not real. Not in the smallest sense. And then today (and many days besides, if I am honest), I have tried to think about things that could be real, and I cannot. I can’t imagine that way. I know too well that things never happen like I might imagine them, and it stops me.


I wish I could believe.



I think more and more that I will write these things, but I am afraid to. I didn’t like what I saw. I don’t think I can say all this to her, but she’s the only one that hears me.

In keeping silent, all I do is destroy. I can be sure of that, but in speaking it’s only that I’m afraid of doing harm. I might not. It’s a hard choice.


I’m sick of speaking. It does me no end of ill.


Still…I am glad to be one whole creature again, instead of being nothing.