. . . to me a lot. where, perhaps i'm sitting in the living room late at night, wanting something i can't have, and despairing because i can't have it.

funny how art provides a cure.

i try never to avoid writing. when i'm confused, upset, angry, excited. it doesn't matter. not letting myself write is the worst thing i can do. even worse than not screaming when i need, not crying when i can't, not dancing when i feel like it, not singing when people just don't want to hear it. if i have the words and suppress them, it magnifies whatever until it may as well kill me.

so . . . observe "one seems to find" and "lavinia surpris'd." suppression would have been more painful than even the words themselves.

now. observe "topos." (t. is greek for place, the root of the word topic . . . to me, the place and frame of mind in which i found myself upon writing.) "i got up when i realized i had fallen down; i got up when i realized i had fallen down; i got up when i realized i was ready." even late at night i feel like it speaks very loudly for itself, and like there's almost nothing more for me to say.

except that i couldn't change this. not for anyone. no one's even worth it. just me.