i want to aplogise to myself for the asphyiating scorn I have reserved for myself for so long. how was it born and why did i nurse it?
random moments unravel threads of a silent wound. no one understands, least of all me myself. no one wants to understand the bitterness of curdled thoughts, of rancid longings.
going through old notebooks i realise i have sinned against myself.
still, i am happy to be me. perhaps loneliness is not about being alone. it is the abyss you fall into when you abandon yourself.