Something about me misses the desolate isolation of that city, the way it demanded absolutely nothing of me. Even the sun shone like it didn’t belong, forever cowered behind an iron community of clouds. Between those city lines, right off Bland and Jefferson, I found an existential bliss in my torment.
No part of me lacks pain, but the thought of healing is a new reality I am unwilling to accept. Richard has encouraged me to speak my truth. But the people I have chosen to love may not be as accepting as those iron clouds above Virginia. So I cower like the sun, shining only to benefit those needing resurrection.
But I am beginning to question the validity of my death. Do I think myself god, to sacrifice my soul for the redemption of all? Or do I live? Both require me to value my own existence, which Richard theorizes that I don’t and possibly why I don’t eat. I have no want to die, but I am having a difficult time understanding life. I am a jaded woman. Unable to journey on for individual rectitude.
On July 24th I cried until sleep confronted me. This is something I reject, my yielding posture to rejection. But it rains and wets my muted tan blouse, the cotton one, that vaguely shows my tattoo through thin fibers woven for the purpose of warmth, and that doesn’t stop me. I am earth, represented by the astrological bull. Nature cannot reject me, it is the destroyers of the soil who erode my essence.
Richard thinks I give too much credit to others, he is always saying, “you have the control to alter such truth.” Richard is one of the positive men who wake up before dusk and sleep with no beauty by their head. I wonder what he claims to be his truth.
What a pretentious woman I can be. I will only take counsel from whom I see fit. So it is decided, I will die to save the souls of everyone.
The truth is, although I may find no value in myself, I thirst for the acceptance of others. I need you to love me, to think me incomprehensible. I have the imagination of a child, and because of it, I believe I am more prone to fantasy; to living inside and managing without. The stories I can tell only to lock away my truth. Knowing just what information to give to seem personable yet omitting any truth of who I am entirely.
Miss Parisia B.