What could save me from this abyss of the self?
Books have assisted in postponing existence.
Now unfit for life, I make do by reading about it.
My attempts to “start really living” led nowhere.
Or, rather, back to isolation;
and these words.
Too restless to take pleasure by mere being,
while with human company I often feel stressed,
there is a reassurance in the presence of books.
How should I learn to love myself?
Must I deny the verdicts of parents, or society?
Perhaps such problems stem from childhood,
accepting harsh judgement by others, upon my life.
Taught to internalise a condemnation,
which may then perpetuate injustice.
Thus, uttering any personal assertion that is positive,
I struggle against an internal barrier
Yet implausible dreams still arise: of beauty, and a woman’s passion.
Visions neither nature nor nurture gave me the equipment to realise.
Can the head cure a sickness in the heart?
It is common to associate happiness with normality,
though times I passed as normal failed to dispel my discomfort.
Sometimes adding a sense of diminished authenticity.
Might reason overcome emotion?
How to change my automatic responses?
If thinking did not get me into this mess,
why expect it to get me out?
I hoped, perhaps, to mellow.