Late at night, I see projections on my bedroom walls; still images of tomorrow, the next day and the seemingly endless days after. I'm sitting at a kitchen table with three mouths to feed -with hands so terribly small- and I am fueled only by a half-hearted sense of obligation. Their father's eyes, drained of its wonder.
I come back to the present in a cold sweat, writhing in an empty bed, with my hand placed under a pillow as a miserable replacement for body warmth. With each of these untimely fits of panic, I feel a longing (longings similar to that of a school girl, a washed out bachelor, a distressed damsel, and the like) that is incongruous with my instinctive nature to doubt the follies of love.
I don't know what my permanent stand on monogamy is, but at the moment I do not wish to actively pursue it. Loneliness is such a bitch, though.
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