To begin, I'll say I live in London. In a flat in London, actually. I'm not British. Though I wish I were. Maybe then I wouldn't be so lonely, if that make any sense at all. Oh my, look at me ramble. I truly am sorry for that.
My flat is decently sized; more than enough space for me and my library. I'm hoping that will change soon, in all aspects imaginable. Oh, my. It's started raining again, granted there's no surprise- it's London. I haven't left my flat in three days. Not because I haven't wanted to or haven't had places to go, but I don't quite know how to leave or why I should...even for important things, like food.
I've been feeling lost lately and I hope that you'll deal with that, though I feel it rude to impose this on you. But, if you continue to read then you are in effect offering your consent and I no longer have a need to feel guilty. I no longer feel guilty. Forgive me for that, if you must. or don't. But please continue to read. It's imperative that I get this out and get it out to you. Yet I concede that regardless of whether or not you continue to read, this is already in print, so it is already out of me. This should then make me feel better. It should be cathartic. It should be freeing. But its the shoulds that screw everything up. Because this act of writing. This act of writing to you is changing me, and changing our relationship with every stroke that flows from my pen. Where was this going?
I've gotten lost in the process of writing that I really don't know where I am. But this, this is far more comfortable-dealing with the loss of self control rather than the loss of self. Back to the flat. My bedspread is in disarray, it's a chocolate/taupe color, surrounded by victorian blue sheets and pillow cases. I don't actually know the name of the blue, but I'll let you decide the shade from my description. My couch is in the corner. It's the most lonely shade of grey. I find it funny that I still own a couch I never use; a couch I got for friends that never see me. Is this ie root of my loneliness? Could it really be that simple? Should I just get rid of the couch? Should I blame the couch. Should I blame my friends? Should I blame myself or should I even blame at all? Because, really, what's the point? It doesn't change anything. This is why I hate writing...that's a lie. I love writing. I just prefer reading. It takes my mind somewhere else, where I don't have to think about things like this, at least until I stop reading... and then, all the thoughts I should've had come flooding to me. Like a dam that's just been broken.
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