Often it feels like I’m writing from a black hole. Alone in the dark, but I see clearly the people steer away in order to avoid being sucked in. Perhaps it’s paranoia painting this vision of all who live with me, hating me. Maybe the force surrounding this black hole is weak because I don’t want them here. I can let them see me once because they do not know me then. Afterwards there is expectation of a façade I cannot live up to. Thus I disappear into the hole and preserve their good memories. The few that have made it through don’t talk to me anymore, or distract themselves by other means. And they don’t see the people leaving me all alone, because they have each other and I guess they assume I am part of the illusion. That I’m OK – I’m not. Don’t ask me to explain why when I can’t. I’ve always assumed it’s just a part of me. In a way that makes me feel better about living in a black hole. Sometimes I’m even happy that way. Sometimes I yell in a whisper, Is anybody out there?