Her very being is repulsed by me.
And I can only find it interesting. Is is my mind? My eye/brain constantly distracting me? What a cold bland space the rest must live in. Even as I type the clicking of my ridiculously zebra striped acrylic nails makes tiny bluish dust motes float out, all soft and dis-solvable.
Maybe it is the eschewment of tradition that plagues her, turns her stomach and narrows her eyes. I can only wonder. And not really bring myself to care anymore.
Soon I can be alone. In my own space. It will be crystalline and acoustic, things arranged to make pleasing sounds. Portraits and silly keepsakes. Tiny boxes, hidden and cherished and filled with secret strange things.
This is what I hold onto in my heart, this promised land of solitude and silence.
But there is never truly silence.
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