Today for the first time in a long time, I realized exactly how alone I am. Away from what I know, I am alone. But I'm not lonely. And although, all I'd like in the world right now is someone to go home & lay with. (Preferably a soft, yummy smelling female to stroke & hold. But at this moment I'm not picky. I'd even be satisfied by Rosa's ugly mean dog.) Instead of an empty bed again. What was initially an extreme relief, an empty bed, has become a void where I am sucked into my sorrows when I'm feeling down (like now). At this moment I have every intention of passing by my dad's house on my way home simply to delay the inevitable, being alone in am empty bed, and nearly empty room.
I'm sure though, that if I had a good book to read, cable, or more dvds I wouldn't be concerned in the slightest about who is and isn't in my bed right now.
So I write. I write out every feeling. My fears, doubts, anxieties, hopes, worries..its only by having the conversation that we can open ourselves to understanding. I fill my alone time with writing, I write out all the mysteries of me and am constantly amused by what I discover with every written word.
Its a hard thing to write, to constantly find inspiration when you have none. I find that most of the time, I don't even finish what I write until days later. There's just so much, its Digging through the recesses of one's mind is becoming harder than finding gold. But the rewards of emptying that which has been so cluttered for so long, is priceless.
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