Yesterday I purchased The Collected Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe. This morning, I woke up with a knot in my throat and needles in my knees. Presently I am in hiding, in my nest, contemplating the beauty of nature as I watch the kitten sleep.
Last week was the end of an era in my life. So many people look forward to change.
I can handle change. But not when I'm leaving. Not if what I love becomes a memory. I can't handle memories. It kills me to see them fade.
I was born with a hole in my chest. Maybe we're all born this way. Or maybe I am a mutant. Who knows.
I fill this abyss with people and places and words and dreams. People who leave me, places I have to leave, words that lose all meaning and dreams and desires that turn to venom. I am constantly falling in love with a million different things; a tree, a bird, a lonely face, a sentence, a scent, a tense, a twinkle, a speck of dust. Always I am in love, because it gives meaning to my life and purpose to my achievements. I need those things to live for. Because I cannot live for myself.
Some people live selflessly, and that is why they care for others. I am selfish to the core, because I care to save myself. It's natural for me, a reflex, instinctive.
What if I feel too much compassion?
What if I'm only crazy because I need to feel everything for everyone?
What if I
1 comment:
I love that book! I have it too. And the hole in your chest... I don't love it, but i had it too until i met my Jacob. I hope that you can find someone to fill your hole as well. I'm still feeling everything for everyone as well though..
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