(no subject)
I'll leave this places with ulcers or a hernia, tension fear depression kneeling deep down in my gut like the little girl who hid under tables and bookshelves. But she drew pictures, and I can't write; I don't write anymore because angst isn't the same as frustration, and somehow words are useless, shrivelled things not even worth the effort to pluck from the gnarled tree. Not to say that I don't love here, love, here, laugh and learn and live here. But everything now is weighed more heavily, on all balances of the scale, and I think I'd hate equilibrium more than anything else but it might be nice to try for an instant, or two. I wanted to see in all directions once, to not live in the shadow of the mountains, and now I can and I do; but instead I don't know where to turn, and I miss hearing the echo of my voice; I can't even shout in this expanse; noone will hear. I miss fighting the old forces, those unseen things that held me down, pulled me back, kept me captive. I miss Her. Because now everything is inside, inside me, deep down inside. And if I won't crack this shell for others, how could I for myself? I'm more frightened than anyone of what it holds.