2004-02-10
Defeated
The dry air and crisp sunlight feel so oppressive looking out of this window, therefore, I have closed my curtains and have made myself an artificial night--the same artificial night that the brooding Romeo made for himself.
I am tormented and stupified because I don't want to be here any more, and I feel as if I were running on an endless dirt path. The same rocks appear here and there. What is this anger that boils inside of me? Why is it that I seethe? What, praytell, has displeased me in such a way? Nothing...absolutely nothing. It's only that...I despise sun-filled days with those hideous birds chirping with unending glee in the sky. I hate my imprisonment, and the thing that I fear most is never being able to leave the unforgiving pit of agony. If I was indeed held by some strange hand over the scorching flames of hell, like a gentle spider torn from its web, then alas, I have been dropped. The flames slowly consume me.
Something must bedone before I vanish myself from this life--I cannot continue like this. Afraid of everything now...seeking refuge behind the cotton blankets and in the darkness. What have I become but a coward! I am asphyxiated, I tied my own rope...oh no, the acid will now begin to erode the sweet wall of comfort.
A BARREN MOOR! A WRETCHED BARREN MOOR!
Perhaps Al is right...this is an end--my end, a terrible end. But I can't start a fresh page, I shudder at hope. Yet, I do not want to be like Lady Madeline and whither away--bloodstained and buried alive. Isn't that what I am doing right now?--burying myself alive I mean. It's what I do, and I hate myself for thinking that I could stand it.
Aaron said to me once, in the most contemptous manner, that I hate everyone and everything, and at the time I sat back and grinned, and made him believe it. It's not true, of course...I am but a person who has been killing herself slowly for the past years. How I have tried to regain my once felt apathy and frigidness! Alas, I cannot...instance that have hitherto been taking place will not permit my soul's peace.
Should I stop being so stubborn? It's for the best...and by doing that I can be happy once more. Then again, do I want to be fate's concubine? That waits and waits in the chambers and at last receives a shattered heart and whithered soul. There is something that does not let me be happy--it's me...I truly am too proud to be loved or love. To recognize it is agonizing, and defeating! That's the word...defeating.
Has history ever known such an internal struggle as vicious as this one?
"The only limit to our realization of tomorrow will be our doubts of today..."--Franklin Delano Roosevelt