Funny how I have the ability to lie to myself. To say, 'I'm good to do this!' when I know I probably won't be tomorrow - but whatever. Recklessness, I gather. Anyway, sending forth my questions, my nervous inquiries, the messengers return with a darker emptiness with, as with Cupid in TWHF, a “passionless and measureless rejection” that goes deeper then anger. It is shame. I guess anger is used to deal with shame: it is outward looking, self-justifying, defensive. It leaves to kills the things that remind us of our shame, without dealing with the source of shame itself. And yes, we are most ashamed of the things that we cannot help.

As I told P once, "I think you're doing the job for 2 people, you're dealing with how you're feeling while trying to figure out how she's feeling and trying to alter your reactions to fit." He nodded in frustrated agreement. This isn't the way it's supposed to be. And while this continues I know that the patterns carry on and that I just need to sleep.


As she walks in the room
centred and torn
hesitating once more
as I take on myself
and the bitterness I felt
I realise that love lost
While white horses
they will take me away
and the tenderness I feel
will send the dog home to me
will I follow ?

Through the glory of life
I will scatter them on the floor
disappointed and soar
in my thoughts I have bled
from the riddles I've been fed
another light moves over
While white horses
they will take me away
and the tenderness I feel
will send the dog home to me
will I follow ?

Portishead :: The Rip