Love is the difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.

Iris Murdoch (1919 - 1999)

Haven't done a lot of self exploration recently, I think I've been afraid to. Peeling back the covers and dealing with what's going on in my heart and soul is always a disturbing experience.


Perhaps it's because I've been ill, and unable to concentrate on either books, movies, or the television, I've been forced to look under the ribcage and into what's going on in my heart.

The past few months have been an exploration for some kind of sensation, some sort of emotional stimulation. I need something to fire the passions again. This thing in my chest has been thumping with all the vim and vigour of a damp tissue.

A rejection awhile ago, while necessary, was a deep wounding. It's made me realize that perhaps this difficult personality of mine is destined to walk alone.

I realize how maudlin that sounds. Truly however, I have tragic taste in women. The women who are right for me, the ones who compliment this personality are put off by my cynicism, the ones who are attracted to this curmudgeon of a soul, are uniquely unpleasant.