between reaching for blankets I stop and try to hear myself. the silence isolates me from the certain refuge of distraction, and it takes a while to hear anything at all. the voice inside is quiet, and doesn't have a lot to say. I want to apologise for hiding and keeping my distance for so long. we both know that to learn and grow we have to come home to each other, though the thought itself is enough to keep me running. I am a stranger to the heart that keeps me moving. is it out of resentment that I neglect myself? perhaps I fear the questions I'll ask if I listen close enough. to reach for more is second nature now. at this point, I'll chase anything to drown out the uncertain loneliness of my own company. I wonder if we still speak the same language. will I ever do the work? I read the news and laugh at the war in my head from the sofa. how much can really matter to a world that doesn't want to know itself?
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