and it is true what you say
that I live like a hermit in my own head
but when the sun shines again
I'll pull the curtains and blinds to let the light in
I'll tread softly, I promise you won't hear a sound. Sneaking past these battlements, these monuments to loneliness. Ice sculptures painstakingly carved- melted into jagged shapes by tears only empty rooms have seen. Others' sneaking suspicions, voiced in treacherous whispers. Exiled. Pretending not to care, with the hardened face of one who has committed themselves to silent shadows. Cold indifference masks a numbing despair, the self hatred of a constant state of culture shock. Who is to be hated more? Those who don't understand, or the misunderstood? And in our minds, in our hearts, we are always to blame. Ever the foreigners in the land we were born. Exonerated by others, for these gifts of incompletion. For this screaming into the oblivion in the only voices available, it never comes out right. It never comes out right. These imperfections are blinding, and the love of them is cruelty. The love of them a secret excruciating desire, but no one sees and no one hears, that this is pain and trying and failure, this is the essence of inadequacy, this is depravity and loathing strewn before them... if they knew it, could they really call it beautiful...? And oh the wanting of creating something beautiful, but it is only ever reflections of never good enough. Real beauty is torture, and all of this feeling, drowning. Sometimes I think all I'm doing in life is bailing out water. Disjointed, disconnected, my words don't match up, my voice doesn't carry. What part of this plainness is so confusing? And somehow it's all of it. Somehow, still as if days old. Indecipherable and hating the responses and attentions so far from what I wanted, needed, or asked for. Intolerable, there are moments I want to end it all. Close my eyes, and be rid of myself and the world in which I've never been quite a part. I think perhaps you understand, though I could be mistaken. Just something about you resonates, the hum of a single note that echoes as it slips from conversations, and reverberating here in me sets off sympathetic harmonies. We seem made similar. Ours the quiet exchanging of oxygen, hydrogen- molecules in passing. I will just sit here, if its all the same. Seeing things for what they are and still finding them beautiful. In this melancholy sense of kinship, I am finding some small comfort. I hope I see you rightly, and you will find the same.