There are days when I feel empty. Inside. But it’s not about feeling stupid, worthless, or anything like that. It’s an emptiness marked by anticipation. Some deeply hidden, invisible-to-the-outside part of me is waiting impatiently to be shaped by another’s will. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less.
Depression? No. It’s not depression. Despair? Also no. It is an exceptionally painful, but also very peaceful – despite all the tension that accompanies it – readiness for nonexistence in solitude. And in that readiness there is something almost mystical. Because there are things I cannot give or take by myself, just like that. And I’m not talking about sex now. It’s primarily about direction. About the right to “become less”, in order to be able to feel more.
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