I can’t sleep. It is very late, and I have work in the morning. The lightning outside is pretty, but it makes me feel guilty for wanting to stay up and watch it.
Someone lives upstairs now. I hear them drop things every once in a while. I am watching shiny drops of water sparkle as they fall off a dead man’s balcony that’s not even his anymore. This world is so strange, and I feel very alone.
Even so, my Charlie is sleeping, pressed against my belly, and I know that my loved ones are all within reach. This isolation is artificial, constructed by my pathology. While that doesn’t make me feel any better, I know that I am safe.
Why is it that we are so hard on ourselves? Why can’t we love ourselves as much as those around us that love us? Why is this so hard?