Listening to Paco de Lucía, semi-randomly chosen for me by iTunes. Haven't heard a single note of his guitar since maybe 1999. As I'm snoozing, all those once forgotten feelings are coming back with a vengeance.
I'm tired. Tired of a cold weather, a weakening loneliness in faceless crowds, tired of a useless mobile phone, empty walls and a numbing silence, but most of all, tired of a black hole in my mind that seems everlasting, bottomless and growing, a black hole that spreads fear and sorrow through my thoughts.
I am dying here.
I need to communicate. Keenly. I need to talk to people, I desperately need to laugh and have fun. And I need somebody who I can trust — after all, I am just a very ordinary human being.
I must fly away for a weekend to hold on to that little sanity that remains.
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