August 13, 2008
Solitary moments. Writing poetry, perhaps, or drawing, or dreaming, watching the clouds, travelling on music. The beauty of things is so clear to you! Not obscured with a daily smog of unnecessary-essential thoughts, no, you don't know that yet. The problems are great, but beautifully pure in their greatness. Let someone else care for the details, worry about the shades of grey, you see all in brilliant black and white. The pain of solitude is eating you inside, you realise no-one understands and no-one will ever understand. Curl up around your pain, no hope. But many distractions.