Behind it all was that ever-lasting
feeling of a void. I could listen to my records, I could light candles and
entertain the idea that the ghosts of those before me lingered, and if I really
tried, I could wrap my arms around myself and tighten my chest. When I did
this, I could almost feel a warmth inside of myself, but it was fleeting. The
feeling of the warmth was a tease as it vanished and I was left colder than
ever.
There was a feeling of having felt this way before many times, and sometimes I scared myself of the notion of how little had really changed since the last time I’d felt this way. In the back of my mind, I knew that I had friends to call, to talk with, but the idea of opening the bottle and trying to make another person understand seemed unfeasible. The utter mention of it to my own mind would never fail to me shivers and as a gift, a lump in my throat that seemed permanently lodged. I housed a type of sadness, a feeling of never being known, a feeling of distancing myself from relationships so that I might never lose myself to the masses. The thought of giving myself to a single person petrified me so, and for that reason I never did. I regret my choices, but as I've lived in a certain way for so long, it has become my nature. I am cold at night, and the loneliness creeps inside of me. I struggle to ignore it, to shut it out and to tell myself that the things the darkness says to me are inept, that all of the things I dislike in myself are of my own doing and that perhaps another could see them some day and welcome such imperfections and me nonetheless. Again, the ceaseless void envelops me. I worry that I’m difficult to get to know, or rather more so that no one will care so as to try. This ache that I feel seems to pull warmth and hope along with it, and I struggle to find the words to describe myself on such an evening as tonight.
There was a feeling of having felt this way before many times, and sometimes I scared myself of the notion of how little had really changed since the last time I’d felt this way. In the back of my mind, I knew that I had friends to call, to talk with, but the idea of opening the bottle and trying to make another person understand seemed unfeasible. The utter mention of it to my own mind would never fail to me shivers and as a gift, a lump in my throat that seemed permanently lodged. I housed a type of sadness, a feeling of never being known, a feeling of distancing myself from relationships so that I might never lose myself to the masses. The thought of giving myself to a single person petrified me so, and for that reason I never did. I regret my choices, but as I've lived in a certain way for so long, it has become my nature. I am cold at night, and the loneliness creeps inside of me. I struggle to ignore it, to shut it out and to tell myself that the things the darkness says to me are inept, that all of the things I dislike in myself are of my own doing and that perhaps another could see them some day and welcome such imperfections and me nonetheless. Again, the ceaseless void envelops me. I worry that I’m difficult to get to know, or rather more so that no one will care so as to try. This ache that I feel seems to pull warmth and hope along with it, and I struggle to find the words to describe myself on such an evening as tonight.
listening to: No Surprises, Regina Spektor (Radiohead Cover)
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