To my very few readers - please pardon the recent spate of cryptic entries which are directed to nobody and everybody at the same time. It must be a compulsive disorder - once I start, I can't stop, and now I'm at the point where I observe myself from the third person's perspective, fully aware of the melodramatic idiocy that I'm indulging/wallowing in, but completely helpless anyway. Though helpless isn't the right word, really. It implies that I have no choice, but I do, and I make my choices, just like any one of you. Whether it is made in Bad Faith is a different story altogether - and it no longer matters.
I used to find it so easy to type, to give a name to what I feel without fear of censorship amongst others. But it's so different now. I can't even express what it is that I want to say, that which is at the tip of my tongue and yet not.
Always, always, I will turn it around, topsy-turvy is my middle name. Always, always, I question my intentions and inevitably sabotage myself before I can even begin - for I will find them wanting. So I remain silent, not in the usual definition 'absence of words' - because for all that I have typed, I remain deliberately waffly and vague. That being said, meta-speaking about it is already dangerous in itself - how long before the cracking of codes, how long before the falling of scales?
Today, I re-learned an important lesson. Comfort can be found within the arms of good friends! Refuge is sought between the spaces and the lines, the black and the white! How could I have forgotten? Never mind that unwelcome truth can be teased out from the missing shards, because I have much to be thankful for - I still may not be able to hear the dawning of light, but I am now deaf to Atlas's cries.