what is left?
For whom does the bell toll? For whom do I don this clown’s garb and dance in the town square? I am grateful to have found friends, but I feel increasingly drawn away—not by some misbegotten notion that there’s too much negativity, or by the dubious claim that the internet is no longer fun. No. The darkness is within me. All these worries, the pull toward spaghettification in how I interact with others. What I hope to achieve, what drives me toward a kind of broken mirror of expectation upon which I’ve been cutting myself since I very first felt shame. The call is coming from inside the house.
There is no if. There is only this: a dance to be forgotten, a lifetime of wanting to be seen, felt, and missed. For absence to sear. And yet I know that if I give in to these tantrums, to tear it all down, what would even be accomplished? Who would notice? Who would care?