i have often, though not in these pages perhaps as regularly as elsewhere, referred to my silent scream. the unheard voice and ignored plea of my deepest darkest self. wordlessly raw and often violent.
but it is not her that plagues me today.
it is, if anything, more of a screaming silence. no, that doesn't fit. a deafening blinding quiet. a heavy Nothing.
an aching weight whose only relief is expression, and i am at a loss for words.
i don't want to talk about it or write about it or even really think in traditional terms, but i know of no other way to cope than words.
and i find they are insufficient.
his thoughts kept him from feeling. winterson may have been writing about atlas, but she got it right.
i don't know how to process this.
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