January 5th, 2013

Juliet is somewhere in this state. The manager of the sober living facility she was staying at, has called to notify me that they expect her return after the weekend. I replied that I do not care to be told about her every move, and I would appreciate not being telephoned in the future. I cannot say that I am surprised by her leave, or by her lack of communication with me. Addiction will always be stronger than a promise. She is sick, and curling into herself. She is a mass of black energy.

Words are coming through, forming my mood. I am moved by them, or I am static. Another day of this. Another day, in which I tell myself that it is not important how a disappearing act is done, only that it can be done. But I cannot leave the children behind. I cannot move forward, without bringing them with me.

The blood in my veins howls and growls. I tire of this slow song, of this restrained swaying. All that is meant to be a refuge can double as a prison. I corrupt everything. Any affair I have with happiness will quickly disintegrate when faced with the cold logic of implausibility.

January 5th, 2013

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