This inscrutable heart's ambivalence is taking a toll on me. I blame it on timing but that sounds much more like an excuse than reason. Arguing with myself about this fear of attachment, fear of letting go, fear of dependence, i can't seem to reach the end of it, of the honesty point where I can apply decision making like a business woman. Well, it's such a wishful thingking anyway. "Tomorrow, the black morning, I close the door in the black face of the dead years. I will go on the road, bum my way over and sea. From the old world to the new world.." Going to sleep and waking up reading Pynchon. This deep, dark, twisted, raw writing soothes this troubled heart, makes it a little softer, a little more secured, a little settled in being alone in limbo. Life goes on, hopefully as peaceful and exciting as this weakling could manage. And this little hole in the heart will be filled, will feel comforted, will be whole again. This bitter sweet state though is addictive. It gives life colour, poetry, and movement. Doesn't all romance do? A smile inwards can be self-serving. But somehow this too shall pass, to nothing or something, only time will prove.
