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<center>$outline[THE SILENCES IN BETWEEN]</center>
$a[I usually have a difficult time getting out of bed in the mornings. I find it difficult to see the point in doing so, when I invariably end up spending the lion's share of my time lying down on my back, staring up at the ceiling. Once, in a fit of inspiration, I put up some glow in the dark stars, in the rough approximation of constellations I only half remembered. They've yellowed with time, looking worn and half on their way out- which is an accurate reflection of myself, most of the time. My doctors say it's not that out of the ordinary, that plenty of people in my circumstances and with my condition struggle with doing so: but I never did manage to find much [[comfort in other people's misery.->1]]](set: $a to (text-colour: (rgb: 0, 230, 0)))
$a[But maybe that sounds more contrarian than it really needs to. I've always had a hard time with not sounding so down in the dumps- and not very many people have the patience to deal with someone who's always on edge, always so negative- bringing down the mood of the room just by existing around them. I often feel like I'm inflicting myself onto others. They say that I should try to challenge these beliefs, uproot them and replace them with things more based in fact, not so distorted by cognitive biases- but I have a hard time contradicting [[the evidence that's in front of my face.->2]]](set: $bold to (text-style: "bold"))
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$a[Maybe that's why I love the forest so much. When you're all alone- you're away from all of that. You can forget about it, and let your mind be carried away by the small, everyday delights beneath the canopy: the soft rustling of leaves, the swaybacked willows bowing close to the riverbanks, [[the scuttling of creamy clouds->4]] against the flat blue expanse of the sky. Here are the tiny ants, come treading- there are the dancing dragonflies lighting down, carrying in their mandibles the decapitated head of a wasp, body long gone from its grasp. There is a brutality in the wilderness, but it's of a cold, cutting sort of beauty. [[Nature's indifference feels kind.->3]]](set: $a to (text-colour: (rgb: 0, 230, 0)))
$a[Nature doesn't care if you are (cycling-link: "alone", "defeated", "angry", "upset", "tired", "giving up"). Nature doesn't care if you choose to engage in the social rituals, as intricate as they are complex. It doesn't ask anything of you- and it does provide, in its own sort of distant way: the means to obtain what you need to survive exist, but it's up to you to take hold of them. And if you bring your own means- there's space for you to just be, sitting cross legged on beds of clover, or perched on a rock with all the gawky grace of a young heron, still as the cattails that line the river in thick, sprawling rushes. <a href="https://arielsanthologies.neocities.org/wastesofwinter.html"> You don't have to justify your existence.</a>]
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$a[I find it hard to actually enjoy things, most of the time. I try my best- it's not like I don't. But it's hard, when most things around you involve some measure of talking to people, reaching out, trying to connect- or else you wind up sitting with your elbows propped up on the cold counter, the frigid stone slicing right through the dulled warmth of patches you've adorned the elbows of your sweaters with: the silliness in watching other people buy pre-destroyed and patched clothing to look fashionable, and accidentally fitting into the trends of what's seen as haute couture, drawing mocking eyes at someone who's trying too hard to fit in- and never will. [[Strangers talk with such loud voices.->5]]](set: $a to (text-colour: (rgb: 0, 230, 0)))
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$a[I don't feel like I belong. How could I, when all of my life I've been rejected, relegated to the sidelines- [[left to be on my own?->6]] It's not an entirely discomforting place. Human beings are malleable, my doctor tells me- you can remake yourself into any image you'd like, you aren't restricted- if you were made in the image of God, and God's greatest gift has been creation- what's stopping you from recreating yourself in your truest self realization, the most-you you could possibly be? That as you delight in the beauty and wonder of creation- so you too should in that of yourself.]
$a[But my hands are stained with bone-dust, my brow is furrowed, and I have toiled long into the night, struggling with unyielding marble that will not relent so easily as the red clay slapped down and spun on other potters' wheels. So I am alone, and lonely- and even when I am not alone, [[the loneliness still lingers at the edges of it all.->3]] It holds me like a $shudder[lover].](set: $a to (text-colour: (rgb: 0, 230, 0)))
$a[I think it comes as little surprise that I took to flights of fantasy, of escapism, packaged up neatly between bookcovers that I kept in shop-ready immaculate condition, as smooth and glossy as they day they first arrived on my shelf. That I've stacked up far more hours in the virtual spaces- a liminality of being-and-not, represented by avatars that looked a little like me, and resembled me less: then, I could be unfettered by my fear, bold enough to interact and give gifts and always rest secure in the knowledge that if I screwed up terribly beyond repair, I could just pause, quit, and reload the game from the last checkpoint. It was safe to experiment, it was safe to explore. I could try portraying a more authentic version of myself, that didn't exist, in all reality. [[But the pretense of it was soothing.->10]]](set: $a to (text-colour: (rgb: 0, 230, 0)))
$a[Only, that isn't a wound that I want to probe right now. Some stories feel like they should remain private, remain sacred- and giving away something's name, anymore than I already have in that hallowed library that'd been reduced to nothing more than smouldering embers and ash, feels like a sin. I don't know if there is really anyone watching out for us overhead- if God would really care, but there are things beyond the scope of our understanding, that stretch and push the boundaries of our imaginations. [[If I had to give God to a concept,->3]] render Him in the flesh: then perhaps he would look a little something like the wilderness of the woods, untouched by humanity, constantly in flux.]