My thoughts have become excruciatingly apparent, achingly transparent. The soil-scanned pores are presented in all their vainglory. To my eyes, I am left stifled and cruel, undeserving of the fruits of my godless labour.

Don’t have a laugh now, ******. This is no entry of any sort, nor am I looking for divine affirmation in the ink that I lay down. My umbilical cord to the heavens is severe  and grotesque, buried under the soot of history’s accords (abandoned scripts, all they are).

This room is cold but I am not, you see? I used to be the stoic; the unabashed abuser of generosity. My shoulder used to hold seven reigns by its lonesome. I should do so well to be fragile, much like I am now. Is it not easier to love this way? Parsimonious as my kindness may be, is it not so pure at the moment? I believe I love, greater than I ever have before.

I should. I shall not sacrifice the gilded mechanisms inside my head for love, no. Perhaps I will love, though superficially. However facetious my care is, is that not what love is portrayed to be? A lover is soon made a loser, for their misfortune or complacence. Stay my hand, dear. Do not let me morph into that lover for you. We do not deserve such a prognosis, not even the thought of one.