It's at times like these I appreciate a lack of color. I dream of a grim isolation. It's ironic that I feel a fondness for that now. I used to have privacy, and I used to have calm. I don't believe I am entitled to their graces anymore.
I miss choices, I miss confidence. I miss taking my time with things. I miss patience. I miss the malaise of Sunday. I miss forgiveness.
I miss when things were grey. I miss when I could let my heart slow down. I miss calm. I have so dearly missed being able to love myself.
I tried to read Critique of Pure Reason. It makes me sad. I'm not allowed any synthesis. I am commanded, controlled by commitment. I have no self. I read that book and I see everything I am not. It's so pathetic. It's not even supposed to be that kind of book.
I don't feel comfortable with my body. I don't want to have urges or needs. I do not want to be treated as a pet, as a servant, as an accessory. Maybe that's all a person is. Maybe I'm not a person after all. I'm a machine. I am used, I am placed. I cannot live like this, and yet... what else is there? I'm not lucky. I do not engender respect.
I don't have privacy anymore. I don't have time.
I am taking steps to loosen up. I am hoping that I will learn to love having a birthday again. I don't like having a birthday. I don't want to think about it. I don't want to be reminded of it. I feel that as I grow older... I hope to one day forget about it. I hope that one day, it will pass. It will feel like any other day. And I won't even notice.
I want silence. I want calm. I want to see nothing but grey. I want to be alone.
I'll write more later
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