July 5th, Year Three

An idea devoid of brilliance, being lit instead by an old candle found in a neglected cupboard. Let’s not call the old me back into this shell of a body. It would be wonderful to become someone entirely new. I will learn how to cook, so that I can keep a man happy. A man is well-pleased, when his woman is in the kitchen. And I will dye my hair blonde. A man never tires of golden locks. I will learn to be quiet. A man enjoys silence. I will stay still in bed. A man likes to be in control. Then I will climb, climb, climb the highest building, and jump straight off.

It is time to give Richard, that dear, his freedom. The release forms are on my desk, and just as soon as Charlie Brown hands me a pen, I will sign them. Richard will never see me again, except in a dream that turns sinister when he notices I am there, having snuck in when his guard was down. No longer will I trace his veins with my fingertips. He will be happy. What an ugly sight. For the sake of beauty, it is not yet time to let him go! Mother Teresa would agree. I know, and she knows, it builds character to perpetuate the misery. Stir the oceans inside yourself, I say. Just not loud enough for anyone to hear and doubt my sanity.

This isn’t fun anymore. Gone are the sights and the sounds. All that is left is the desperation of bargaining with thin air. Bring him back. Nothing comes. At this point, there is no point. My shape is unfamiliar and I struggle to accept it, which is necessary before changes are to be made. Change. Stay the same. I oscillate, I vacillate.

July 5th, Year Three

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