TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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I have two letters and a few emails to write. I can't seem to get around to them. I want to write them, but I'm afraid I will get silence in return when I do send them off. Or, worse, a response that I won't be able to deal with emotionally. It has been a season of unanswered emails, and of course I think it's because I am terrible. But there have been weird circumstances accompanying each email, and I shouldn't jump to conclusions.
Other news: I can't seem to find peace these days. I keep returning to the past. Remembering ancient wrongs and imagining the emails and letters I should have sent. I haven't left the flat in two days. I don't want to be out there: the bleakness of the early autumn afternoon reflects the bleakness within, the frozen sea that no book, no poem, no image can break. There are sudden calls to my attention: organize this! read this! help me! and I do whatever is asked. I am always helpful, always the one with the ear, the hand, the company to give. Nevertheless I feel remote, detached from everyone and everything. This detachment, I think, is probably related to those unsent letters and emails.