To whom does it matter? You see, if I post this entry, it will be seen as a cry for attention, not like the threatening suicide kind of attention, I do not plan on ever revisiting that time in my life. But the kind where I'm looking for the compliment, looking for the kind word, looking for someone to read and comment. I may not post this because of that. You see, one cannot ask the kind of questions one needs to without sounding desperate or deluded. My friend said he was going to send out an email asking "what am I worth." I told him my response would either be ".57 cents" or to come over crying. He and I both knew that the question wasn't really "what am I worth to you" but "what am I worth to me" and to that question I have no answer.
Winter is coming, its breeze blows down from the mountains and hills and quiets me. This fear resounds within my bones, within my muscles and I watch for the leaves to drop. The second shoe bringing with it the day where the wind blows and my wind blown tears freeze to my face. People say they don't like winter, they don't like the cold, for me the cold is frightening, it feels unending like the darkness is within instead of without. It is not the winter I hate; it's the desolation, the realization of unending decay. I know spring will come, it always does, but like the primitives before me I always wonder if perhaps this is the time when it wont. When it will get darker later and later until all it ever is is the darkness. I fear this encroaching cold. I cannot enjoy the leaves and the colours because they bring with them the promise of the isolation of the winter. I cannot make you understand. It is as though the ice will freeze me as I try to speak, moving down my throat, past my lips and tongue into my stomach where it will spread, each finger glistening, each joint creaking with the weight of the weather. This is my helplessness.
So I sit in my sweater and my wool socks and I wonder what I am worth. I wait for someone to call because they rarely do. I sit in the bath of my own loneliness and wonder, what am I worth? I am not asking you; your words would not matter, I don't think. I know this is the question I ask myself, the question of "Why does it matter what they say?" I should know the answer. I should feel more worthy of my own love and not crave the reminder of other people. I should not have to ask but have it be known. No one can give me the words I really need. A thousand letters telling me what I mean to others will not replace the knowledge I cannot give myself. I am so lonely, lonely not for other people for I am grateful to not have company right now, but lonely for something else, something intangible. This hole is nameless yet not unknown. It envelops me, it promises familiarity stroking me softly with its gloves. Velvet over its taloned hand.