Thursday, 23 August 2012

Please leave a message

There's a scene in Bridget Jones' Diary where she checks her answering machine for the umpteenth time.

You have absolutely no new messages. Not a single one. Not even from your mother.

I'm living that scene. And it's my own fault, the direct result of creating isolation. The real danger is I'm becoming so used to my inner thoughts that I struggle to find conversation. I don't want to poison any I do find.

The paradox is the more I crave contact and conversation, the less possible out seems. Or is that an irony? One to ponder. I've little to offer and mostly if people do get in touch it's because they want something. On their terms. And this makes me feel resentful. So the further back I withdraw.

There is also the compounding realisation of. Hmm. Actually, I won't go there, suffice to say I'm resigned to being alone, I just want it to stop hurting and being on my mind.

I've never looked forward more to work than I do now. I need the opiate it brings, something to fill the void, a reason to go somewhere, a source of anecdotes, a chance to build vacuous relationships to try and fool my mind.

I just hope it's soon.

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