(no subject)
I don't understand myself, i don't understand the contradictory impulses, the need to be near other humans when i cannot bear to speak to them. I am becoming shyer, and more lonesome. I want home, the hills and hidden streams and endless forests and the quiet and the peace. And nothing is expected, i can curl for days with my books and records, and when the desire strikes, fall into the warmth of my dear dear friends. There's nothing i can depend on here.