(no subject)

[xinjinmeng]

:
While the weight has been lifted from my shoulders, it has not changed that the coils are still in knots.  Congress feels like a respite, not a release.  It hurts me to confess that N_M_ continues to vex me.  I simultaneously want her to apologize for my perceived slights and to forgive me for my own transgressions -- and that also makes me feel weak, then the weakness builds to make me feel insipid.

Apparently, a society magazine has taken to following me about, with truth no barrier to their exaggerations and enormities.  Such is the cult of charisma.  Would that I cultivate my own, but I find myself in between unwillingness and inability.  I would think I would be more schooled in these games of etiquette, but I often feel like to even come to the table weakens me.  I am a singer, not an actress; I have many tells.  I want to feel a permeating honesty in all things, that we are all equals.  Yet everything in my schooling and in my experience tells me otherwise. 

I have returned to my former abode, the one in the utopian collective with the proper shielding controls. (Now that my internal radiations are down to nominal levels, I no longer need worry about censure from the home-ownership association.)  I have promised myself I will read the complete Le Morte Darthur.  It rankles me that as I watch things fall apart, my response is one of bitter solitude.  Am I destined to be a eremite, isolated by my own design?

I briefly think of my sponsor for the collective. How long as it been since I had seen her?  Am I stubbornly clinging to a broken machine?