I began the day in a very good mood.
This place was my refuge, where I hoped I could be myself - or at least part of myself - without fear of judgment or censure. A naïve hope from the beginning.
I thought I could write without censoring myself. Again, naïve - and not quite honest, because I've been censoring myself all along. There are things I've never told you about the philosopher - to protect him, because I loved him. Because I didn't want to hurt him.
People have lives outside their blogs, people have relationships outside their blogs. You will never know the whole story. You will never really see the diamond glistening with all its facets. A writer is both brutally honest and cautiously selective.
This afternoon, I wrote a short, rhymed poem about shutting down the blog. About keeping it for myself, as a place in which to express myself as I wish to.
I was discouraged from doing that.
Instead, there is this:
I am no longer permitted to write about him.
Perhaps I'll just write about the cats.
Days and weeks and months of poems about my cats.
It should all become pretty insipid after a while.
But at least it won't alarm anyone.
Speaking of which, I'm sorry I mentioned that I know meg. I'm particularly sorry that people are assuming that she has a responsibility to look after my safety. To call the police. Leave her alone. She has no responsibility for looking after me. I have good friends very nearby who do look after me.
I appreciate all the love and concern, but please stop now.