Soft whispers cannot be met with hard ears. And they’re all hard, and harsh, and loud. All of them. Even if I were to yell at the very top of my lungs I would not be heard. Not over their noise, and their mess, and their preoccupations.

Those who do not wish to hear will not.

I cannot help but despise them. I regard them with contempt, and I desperately wish it could be otherwise, yet tell me how they can all turn away and continue to feel so comfortable? How do they walk, unburdened. Do they have a secret? Or are they simply stronger? I think I am jealous.

I was born so fragile that even the wind could shatter me.

tender

Oh and cut your long hair because you are tired, and your long braid won’t wrap its way around your neck while you sleep anymore. It just causes silly temptations. A little tighter, I dare you. It’s easier this way, much easier, and I suppose it’s nice that your head feels weightless. Sometimes you wonder if you did it to try and be six years old again - put ribbons in your hair and fix what went wrong so that you might finally be happy (Freud would be delighted). Oh well, at least it’s making Summer easier to bear.