edit: This entry was eradicated in a rash act of angry shame. But not before I saved it. On further reflection and repetentance, although I no longer support or intend to carry through the rejections and resolutions expressed, I realized that this entry still needed to be kept. I repost it, as close to how I originally had it as possible, with only this note affixed. A seperate entry of retraction will come forth later tonight or sometime tomorrow. I am in humble gratitude to the two who rebuked my foolish actions. I am vastly unworthy of both of you.
Pain...So much of it. Unflinchingly brutal. But I am determined to push away every form of comfort offered me by others.
My comfort, instead, will be in the comforting of others. I shall not lay my weary, aching head in anyone's arms. I shall bear up in strength, not numbness, but strength, feeling every pin and needle scream through my feet, feeling every fragile bone in my body tremble, feeling the pain rack through me all the way down into my fingertips; and I shall go forth in this weak condition to hold the aching heads and hearts of others in my arms. I shall find my comfort by being that of others. Carefully lifting their chins in my hands, lifting their bleary, weeping eyes to the stars as I whisper lovingly and soothingly, not bothering to mask out the pain traced across my face and escaping my voice. I am a kindred spirit that way. I know the pain of some of them tenfold.
But let them question me not. I will glide away, leaving them to what they must do, stealing away to my private glades where my tears will be shed in bitter petition to the stars. Where the cold light of the moon may heal my wounds. She shall tuck me in bed to sleep and tell me her own stories of tragic woe (my own will dull drastically in comparison) while the stars will gather the responsibility of singing me to sleep with lullabies of hope.
When I awake every morning, I shall return to the forests of the world, but one day, who is to say, I might be able to leave the glade in another direction and the inhabitants of the villages I used to visit, will see no more of me. The drifter... the hermitess...ever searching...
Yes. A dramatist, a tragedian, a romantic.
It's time to drudge up my good sense and lay aside this ridiculousness before it leads me to enact a tragedy...
Today's ambiguous, anonymous statement: It's not that I think only of myself. It's simply that I can write only of myself. I need to sort out all of my feelings anyway.