How typical of the contrary self.  Feeling repressed and needing to speak, I find this place that no one who knows me knows exists -- ideal to the spilling of heart-secrets, yes? And, naturally, the urge to speak dries up.

It's so hard not to watch them all day as I work and not want to be them, so many days. You know, them. They don't stop long enough to really feel or really think or really listen; such comfortable content numbness. I was always told as a child I should want such, and I can see the temptation.  Behind the dull rumble of daily chore their lives seem so quiet; they don't ever seem to bleed, and if they do they hardly notice.

They don't see anything.

What point was it I stopped despising them and wishing wearily we two could be alike? and why is there the urge to think of that as a happy point? It's surely easier not to fight, on the surface of things. No waves, no ripples, no rocking the boat or even making it nervous. Just numbness.

Slowly, slowly I accept that I cannot be numb and happy with it; small though the voice is it chokes and chokes and burns if it cannot speak.

I had meant to speak of passions tonight, but they are buried deep so as to be hard to reach, and circumstance demands I sleep.