Maybe writing will help. Maybe it won't. Either way, I write. Pen and notebook. What I have here.

What is this that I am feeling? Why now? Earlier, I wrote down the revelation about powerlessness. But it's more than just that. There's this utter sense of foreboding deep down.

Maybe words are insufficient. They lack the precision to deal with what's going on. Like trying to pull out a sliver with mittens.

I am, again, powerless. Running away won't help. Staying here won't help. I can find no wound, yet my soul hurts.

Being around other people becomes a chore when I am like this. Either I feign normality, or I appear insane. Or well meaning people who understand even less about me than I do try to help me. Usually, it's just easiest to cover and withdraw. So I find myself isolated due to conditions of my own making.

Up to a point, I suppose this kind of withdrawing is healthy, as it allows me space to work through my shit free from the need to put on fronts. But after a while, lack of contact becomes its own form of suffocation.

I'm listening to the priestess of alternate dimensions work her magic on the piano.

A therapist I once had told me on more than one occassion, "The map is not the territory."

Blah. I'm not even reasoning or processing anymore. Just throwing out random thoughts, recalling, and letting my brain turn to mush.

I contend that there is something truly theraputic about the music of Tori. On more than one occassion when my mind and emotions have felt cramped up, listening to her stuff has sent me away with a sort of relieved acceptance. A peace.

How does it work? I don't know, but then again, often times, I don't know where the deepest pains come from in the first place. The process of healing is just as mysterious and unexplainable as the wound.

Sadness melts into a sweet cream.

Every moment passes with its own combination of beauty and dispair. I am worn out. Goodnight.