There is bliss in a warm pile of laundry. A reason to keep going.


Despite my obsession with order, it is one of the only messes I enjoy.

"How can you trust your feelings when they seem to disappear so quickly?"

I realized today why I cannot feel close to other people. It is because they reject sadness, like a disease. They run from it, hide it, medicate against it. And I welcome it like an old friend, chase moments that I know will bring me that melancholy ache. I don't know why, but it is this love for the morose that sets me apart. I want to linger in it. Maybe it is because the spectrum of my emotions is so short that I am happy just to feel anything at all.

I want to meet someone who will appreciate my pull towards it, love me despite it and maybe more because of it. How can anyone love a broken thing, though? That's like asking someone to pay full price for something that doesn't work; something that can't be fixed.

This is why I like being alone. The cycle continues.