the hour of the wolf and related matters: if this is too depressing, do not read

i wish i had one of my kind somewhere nearby. one with the empathic link, and the ability to draw, or make things of clay or whatever, within reach, and unafraid, and able to transform the pain into something, anything.

because it turns out that the empathic link does not work on self. like i did not know. like any knowledge helped.

thirty-nine years of my life have just been buried there, in that rainy graveyard a month and a half ago. the breach in my morphic memory is bigger than i estimated, bigger than i apparently want to admit. or can cope with.

yet, even if one of my kind would be nearby, do i dare to breach my armour? do i trust anyone enough to allow my pain link with their perception? with all the intensity my mute pain acquires at the time of dusk, and the random hours of the wolf that visit me with enviable regularity? i do not know. and among all the other things, i do not want to breach my shell, and then find out that there is either no link possible, or i have made a mistake.

i know that my pain will not make the world a better place. i cannot transform this pain into anything, there is simply too much of it. i can squash it inside my shell, and shut myself out – till the hour of the wolf, that is. but by then i try not to be anywhere near people.

i sure am no steppenwolf. i wish i were. maybe.

but: by shutting the pain inside, i risk losing my own empathic link. because this is a two way link. to take, one has to give. to give, one has to take. blast it. i think this pain has me confused.

so… do i dare? i do not know. is it fear, or arrogance? i do not know. or maybe it is the hole in the morphic memory that creates all this confusion? the customary patterns are broken, and my self is too … stretched to make new patterns? i still do not know.

the hour of the wolf is upon me, and it intends to stay.

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