It’s so dark and cold in here. You cannot block it all out, you cannot pretend anymore. It seems though that everything is about to fall into place eventually. This isn’t the calm before a storm. The storm, some blasts of it at least, have already struck ripping apart everything. Tearing at flesh, wood, mud.
Even my selfless acts are not appearing to be as longlasting as those of before.
Would I go back and change anything?
I think I shouldn’t.
It would be essentially wrong. I’ve read enough of Harry Potter to understand that.
See if I had a tangible cause of grief, if the loss was obvious, then you could even try to sympathise. But you can’t, because you don’t know what it is like. What this feels like.
I wanted to become writer a long time ago. But now, it seems like all inspiration has been sucked out of my marrow. I cannot write what I used to before. Fairytales and adventure stories, fiction strongly entwined with fact, all that has ended. It appears to have.
Let the skyscrapers rise above the dirt and reach the sky, you tell me. But sometimes if the foundation is weak, no building stands.
It’s just so dark and so cold in here.
city of dimmed lights
P.S. still have to remember my happiest memory.