It's true. I don't want to talk, lately at all. And yet talking and putting things out in the open is how they'll ever stand a chance of changing or resolving.
I suppose the preferred alternative is just to be held, and cry, and for it (the pain) to simply be understood for what it is. Except the possibility seems so remote as to be impossible. So much of the companionship I've experienced has been conflict-ridden, to the extent that being alone is preferred. And not the typical me-type of alone that involves reaching out to people, singly, but the more absolute type of alone, or the type of alone where nothing deeper is ever delved into, for fear of the pain.
I can't always be just on the brink of tears. But yet.
So much of my life is moving forward. And yet.
This is why I have to push myself to write again. Because it's the only thing left.
Once upon a time, this is how I told myself about myself. This is how I sorted myself out. I don't know anything anymore. Which is why I'm back.
This was always my space. I could say what I found to be true about myself and my life, and it was
I suppose it's natural that I don't talk anymore.