I like to wallow.
I do.
It's comforting, isn't it?
Weaving a womb of sorrows about yourself, spinning a secret dark hollow of mind as a spider does a web, floating-drowing in amniotic tears -
An embryonic peace; heavy and private, with grief a whispered lullaby, gentle as a caress over the enshrined foetus -
But the rude awakening that is birth brings forth pain and insanity and awakeness.
Who wants to be awake? Who wants to sleep?
Is there a difference between the two...?
Oh, it's the most perfect horror that I know.
Terrible beauty is a cliché, but can't clichés be truth?
I and I wish not to be barren, for I am mother and child both in depression.
