I believe that men who hold anger in their hearts are small. That they hold onto anger because they have little in their lives. Great men and women have the world to think about, and anger takes up too much room.
I don’t know whether it’s better to try and live apart, higher, than I am now? To ignore Ashley’s slights and neglect, to push them down as I climb to a higher plane, one that doesn’t depend on his moods and infrequent good humor? To find solace in books and writing and Annie? Is that right? Or should I try, over and over again, to make him understand that I should be beloved? I’m tired of trying. It seems an impossible thing to teach. In and of itself, it ought to be impossible because it should be self-evident. It would be like trying to make someone fall in love with you.
I want to believe in God because I want to believe these tribulations are being recorded. I want the pain in my chest etched on a stone tablet.
Does sadness cause resentment? I’m not a great woman. There’s nothing lofty or superior about me. Maybe my world is too small and that’s why I can’t let go of the resentment. I want to sublimate it, put it on paper or in poetry. I don’t want it. When it goes, though, I’m left with no spite, only a vacuum in my chest. Ashley says it’s self-pity. But I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I’m feeling sorry. I think it has to be like a reflexive verb in French, “elle se couche.” She puts herself to bed. For this to be self-pity, I would have to be one step apart in consciousness. But I’m not. I’m there. I’m not thinking about the sadness, it’s right here with me.
I’ve deleted the rest. The datasphere may be too public for my emotional retching.