the high cost

I am unfit for most everything except writing. Or trying to. Because the only people who don't make me feel odd and separate are crazy, sensitive, ostracized writers.

Woolf. Head. Bronte. Chopin. Walcott. Roy. Forster. Too much feeling, too many thoughts, too much introspection, too much analysis, all. Abnormal loving. Abnormal perspective. Abnormal expectations. Abnormal desires. Lonely. All in their little lives lonely in ways that people cannot conceive. Loneliness that does not dull. The feeling is the primary thing. Just too much of it. That won't quieten. That won't rest. That only agitates. Takes over. It seems sometimes.

Perhaps one day I will publish just one little story and people will read it widely and in it there will be something that makes them say, "Yes...she got that right. I never thought that anyone could understand that inside of me, and here on this page she has gotten it right." And then the people I love can begin to believe that there was a purpose for how they suffer being loved by me.