I am bomb fragments and broken concrete

I wanted to post something more insightful today, but I still feel like I’ve just been through a bomb blast and am crawling over broken concrete.

All I have to give you, reader, is another pictorial representation of the paper factory in Krsko.  Take it as a visual metaphor for the way I’m feeling.

Paper factory in Krsko

That's my soul up there

.

“But, M., ” I can hear you say, “your soul is pure GLAMOUR!”

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In which I look at a full moon, and remain tediously unhappy

There is a full moon shining over the balcony.  It looks like an anguished face.

My camera can’t do it justice, as you can see in the photo below where it looks like a glowing glob.

The moon over my balcony

I can’t sleep.  Maybe because I spent all day alternately crying and sleeping.  Grief is damnably tedious.  If I weren’t me, I’d want to smack me for clogging up the internet with my unbridled emotions.

I’d rather post about something fun or interesting or thoughtful.  But my vending machine is all out of everything except broken glass, barbed wire and blood.  Please make another selection.

I apologize for boring you, dear readers.

It really feels like hell

Bleeding deeply by MK Hajdin

"Bleeding deeply", my painting that I am not happy with

Warning: confessional.  Don’t read if drama bores you.

I told myself I wouldn’t post about this.

First, because the internet is full of people who don’t care.  Second, there are a few people who do care, and this would worry them.  Third, I pride myself on my self-sufficiency and it’s fucking embarassing to admit that I am in emotional pain.

But I am.

I woke up crying last night and I have been crying all day.  I managed to make two half-assed posts (and this will be a third) through a haze of tears, which I spent earlier today feeling sort of proud of, though it seems meaningless at this point.

What happened, you ask?

I was dumped by somebody I really like.  That sounds like such an ordinary thing.  It’s happened to us all. It happens every day.

It wasn’t even in person. It was over the internet, which nobody should take seriously, because there aren’t real people behind those pixels.  Right?  It’s not the same as Real Life.  Or so everybody says.  Maybe I’m more sensitive about such things because of being so isolated in real life.  People don’t even speak English here.

But it’s somebody I really, really liked, and whose work I admired, and being sort-of-friends with them meant a lot to me.

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