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Cage of bones finished... This absolute havoc of a book. An echo of Temperature in so many ways, but still not... Not at all.
I have so many stories, so many stories within me, and it feels that if I just put my fingertips to my keyboard, they will write themselves but I can't. For the first time I can't because there is just too much within me, too much to say, that it would only become a word salad.
I've gotten comprehensively hurt. I was called a narcissist because I was afraid my colleagues hated me and I've spent weeks trying to puzzle myself together. Going from watching videos of me thinking "there dances a narcissist" to looking at myself in the mirror and carefully starting to believe that I'm a good person.
So many seem to believe my feelings are open for hurting and I ask myself why? Why is it that I am perceived to be a person that you can ignore once you've eased your heart about yourself? Why do people not notice these things? And what the fuck gives me the right to ask them to notice these things.
So I pull away, silently, sitting in the echo chamber that is my own mind in isolation, chewing the same words of affirmation over and over just to convince myself that I am not worthless. That I am someone worth spending time with, worth considering inviting.
Nobody, absolutely nobody wrote to me and asked me what happened when I left my dance studio while I know, deep in my heart, that if anyone else left as visibly as I did (my exotic heels took up half the shelf), I would have been the first one to contact them, not because I was curious but because I care.
Because I do care.
This is the only place, the only spot where my mind is free because nobody knows me here. Nobody. And there is something good in that.