Apr. 8th, 2013

inherentdecadence: (Default)
It angers me. To be in this state- desperate for passion, interaction, invigoration in my life. To think it is something better to be speaking to someone "out-world" than any one from my Victorian London; to be dissatisfied with it. Why? I ask myself, has my existence corrupted itself so far that I am no longer contented with what I once was?

Perhaps that is merely the story I am doomed to tell. Condemned to discontentment with every new thing I encounter; condemned to find myself disillusioned, discarding piece after piece of my skin away, until I can but hope I am naught but a shining angel underneath. Ha! If at best, a dark shadow of some devil.

I wish. I plea in my mind that someone will grant me their attention, someone besides whom I am used to. That I will be allowed to frollick amongst the people I so desire, able to charm and flatter and laugh. I am, instead, alone - lonely, without the socialisation I need. And am I to complain? Perhaps, I am over-entitled. After all, there is nothing to stop me attending parties in my own world, but now, they are nothing to me. Nothing.

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inherentdecadence: (Default)
D. G.

April 2015

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