I wish I had siblings. Or a dog. Or a cat. But I’m allergic to cats. Or maybe if my fish could talk to me. I wonder what we’d talk about. The trials and tribulations of being confined all your life. We’d probably have a lot to talk about.

I am very used to being alone, but I get lonely very easily.

The assaults have breached my frail defenses. Build a stronger wall.

Perhaps this is a mark of my growing up, but amidst an argument it finally just hit me how much I really don’t care about what other people think of me anymore. I often hear, “So and so said this about you,” and “Such and such thinks this,” and where I used to become uncomfortable and quiet, I now toss these quaint but useless comments into my mental trash bin. I trust my judgement. I don’t need anyone else’s.

It sure took me long enough.

It’s December,
and I am the oddest combination of
excited and distressed and fatigued and hollow.
And I am questioning a lot about myself
and what I want
and what I am capable of
and I’m finding that
I’m not really sure about
anything.

It’s another month to
figure it out
and get it right.

We’re almost to the end
and then we start again.

and sometimes I wish
oh so very much
that I could learn to be unaffected
by the things I see
by the people around me.
that I could learn to walk forward
with my third ear closed
with my third eye blind
and with that tiny but powerful part of my brain
completely impaired
for it warps everything my senses take in—
the root of my ruin. 

maybe then
maybe then. 

I feel myself and my self-perseverance slipping, ever so slightly. But I’m very determined to bury this, do my work, and pull through. My reward will be these upcoming weekends. Haul ass for another month or so and get the bestest prize in November—the chance to be on stage again. Heavy eyes and heavy heart, but my head’s held high.

You’d rather go numb — ignore the stings with lids closed — cos when the gates start to rise, the floods start to flow.