february-may 2022, the inklings

There's so much I hate about becoming a person again. I can't stand it, the disappointment and waiting and the growing feeling that even if I figure out how to love somebody, it wouldn't matter. There's too much of me to love and so much to hate and a lot that nobody can see. I bleed my heart and my mind if you're in my reach and I probably need to learn how to shut up. I really don't think I can ever learn to love again but that's alright because I'll wrap myself up so tight in my ego that nobody would want me to. A deal struck between me and the rest of the world.

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I think love should be a religion. I think love is religious for me. It might be tied to kink, but there is so much power in love alone. I would do anything for anyone.

I don't think I could find anybody that loves me more than I love myself. By love I mean know, I suppose, because what greater form of love is there besides devotion to the subject? To say I will study you and that you fascinate me. That I want to ask questions constantly cause I have a curiosity of you that could never be satisfied. That I could spend a lifetime getting to know you and there would still be more I would want to learn. ​