Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.
I am very sad and I feel more miserable than I can say, and I do not know how far I’ve come. I do not know what to do or what to think, but vehemently desire to leave this place. I feel so melancholy.
I think that writing is a way of continuing to hope. When things sometimes feel as if they’re not going to get any better, writing offers a way of trying to connect with something beyond that obvious feeling … because you know, there is hope in connecting, and so perhaps for me it is a way of remembering I am not alone.