Good for you. Really. Good for you.
But the moment passed.

I thought this was something new. But it appears that it came across my mind last year too (thanks to my dear journal).
But it's so real this time. So true to me, such that I cannot trust anymore. (Ah, a paradox.)

It’s like how people say that wounds heal, but there'll always be a scar. And that scar, is a reminder for ever. It will never go away. Its presence will haunt, constantly reminding us that other wounds will be made, or this scar will be opened up again. That it is Not Imposssible. It is not an INaccessible place to go. It is possible to go there again. So, if it IS even possible, then what's real and what's not? If it's real, that place should never exist..right? But I shouldn't even question that. Because it would mean that I'm really gone-case.

It is a place without hope. Dark. Ultimately a place of despair. Indifference. Reluctance. Refusal. Rejection. Silence, but not peace. Just a silent tension, silent struggle. Sighs.

There’s a way out. Many ways, actually. But the problem with this place, is that nobody really wants to get out, somehow. They want to, and yet they don’t want to, too.

How can a person want something, yet not want it at the same time? It is not a 'sitting on the fence', but having some certainty on both sides of it, in one mind. That's crazy. It's like a person within a person, or two persons within one. A good one, and an evil one.


{ “I dreamed they cut me open and found I had two hearts. The second one was small, and it was a different colour. It was hidden underneath the main heart, so they didn’t see it at first. I was very surprised when they told me about it, but the doctor said it was completely normal. He said that most people have two hearts, we just never know it.”
…
It’s true, isn’t it, that each of us has two hearts? The secret heart, curled behind like a fist, living gnarled and shrunken beneath the plain, open one we use every day.
…
It’s the betrayal of this second heart of ours, its flesh tied off like a fingertip twined tightly round with a single hair, blue-tinged from lack of blood. The shameful squeeze of it.
…
It’s not the content of our dreams that gives out second heart its dark color; it’s the thoughts that go through our heads in those wakeful moments when sleep won’t come. And those are the things we never tell anyone at all. }
The Dogs of Babel – Carolyn Parkhurst