It’s like La Narcisse has just walked into the room again, and eaten up all the oxygen.
and
I’m being led up a long and winding garden path, only there’s no gate anywhere for me to leave.
and
There’s someone in a uniform directing traffic, except I haven’t even been given petrol for my car.
and
I am eating chocolate because I can’t figure out what food isn’t banned now.
and
Today must be one of those dates when I was told something would happen, and it hasn’t, and I am awash with loss for an unmet promise, but I don’t know what it was.
and
This is all a fiction that drives me forwards, but only for someone else’s purposes.
and
They told me they would take whatever I wrote and use it as their own, and I refused, and I stopped writing.
and
When I stopped writing, everything else stopped too.
and
It is an unbearable anguish.
and
A person in a position of trust has betrayed me.
and
None of this will ever see the light of day, and it will be as lost to me as every other part of the last four years of my life has been lost to me.
and
None of this matters to anyone but me, because I will still get up and function exactly as I am required to, even while my losses are tearing my flesh as they fall through my hands.
and
It’s like I am locked inside an ill-fitting cage made of cardboard and lies.
and
I just want to be able to visit the seaside, and stay awhile. I need a real holiday.
and
I miss my Nanna, terribly.
and
I am too young to be wrought this old, all at once.
and
I have just understood so that I am able to articulate it, that I am regarded as peripheral by someone who matters to me. The evidence has been there all along. Peripheral, or expedient.
and
It has been too long, and I have nothing to show for it, and this has passed beyond the bounds of all bearability.
and
This pandemic and all its toxic complication has gone on for too long.
and
There’s not too much more that could make any of this worse, other than winding it all back up and repeating it again.
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