I was crying partly because I felt that this was expected of me, partly from genuine repentance, but partly also because of a deeper grief which is peculiar to childhood and not easy to convey: a sense of desolate loneliness and helplessness, of being locked up not only in a hostile world but in a world of good and evil where the rules were such that it was actually not possible for me to keep them.
-- "Such, Such Were the Joys..." by George OrwellOh, if this were how it is to be,
then I'm not sure where I stand.
Apparently, I'm on the edge--the very point
of a one-way mountaintop. All alone,
but so heavily looked upon by those
examining and analyzing my every move;
every inch and sway remains in their sight.
But I do not like the breeze up here.
It's cold, and I have not a hand to warm me.
I loved him--that much was always a fact,
and nothing about that changed.
It's not like I want to be anywhere near here,
but I know and feel that this is right;
this is how it should be. And I struggle
to come up with adequate conclusions
as to why my desires don't match up with
what plays out in reality. Oh, if I only knew.
I've only seen a little bit of life so far,
and I say, I must constantly cover my eyes.