but a place without loss

Back to boredom.

Boredom reveals.

Terrible fear in me—I hide behind other portions of my identity because stories (which are truth, and the way people impact one another—read a very interesting article yesterday on that idea)—because the stories of my life are so severe that I cannot go there.

They are stories of loss.

But they have the power to hurt others.

And to let people in. I don't want people in, regardless of whether or not, being human, I must let them in.

People are not kind, and I cannot trust my need to be treated kindly to them. Far better to keep them all "out there"—sometimes, a life allows the boundaries to be ringed by the score of individuals, hands clasped and singing—the long row of them, singing.

But not so often.

Can't see their faces, save one, maybe two. I do not know them. They aren't really there, anyway. I have found my solace and identity in ideas and in Truth and in images like flowers—the exotic kind, heavy in scent and as yet not known, vivid if not garish, hiding in jungles yet unexplored, then coming to the light of someone's microscope, notebook, pen.

My day begins. Yesterday, at the elevator, glad to be there again. The place clean, ordered, filled with that distant row of people, not clapping, not singing, just present.

-adapted from the morning pages, 25 June 2013