(no subject)
I have to live for myself much more than I have been living. Look at myself in the mirror the way I used to, even if I dont feel the same, feel that some part of my body is beautiful. My surface is cracked and fissured as the flanks of a volcano. But there's no fire inside of me. I feel ugly inside and thats the worst part, more unbearable than having to exhibit my outward putrefaction. I'm not sad. I'm not even sad. What I feel is estranged. Alienated. Out of it. I've lost all confidence in myself. Everybody around us thought we were so much in love. I think we may have been, in a way. In a strange, very simple way. Sometimes I suspect we were never in love enough. It was a great performance by two confused adolescents. Or if that tingling, tickling sensation that heralds love did occur, we were too young, too irresponsible and the love ran between our fingers-our desires.