Second Journal entry: This Still Room
I'm the only one here in this still room, in this rocking chair with no cushions. I put a childhood movie on an old TV set and set the volume low. I’m writing, and it's lonely work. I’m drawn to it, and it led me to this room. It brought me no peace today. Instead it felt like fear , but that isn’t the right word. It's not quite pain or unease , but I feel it between my lungs and throat. I’ve been waiting for someone to open the door to this room; that’s the source of all this. I’m waiting for someone to pull me out of this room. I can get out of it myself, but if I did that, I would never know if anyone would have done it. Whether it’s pride or hope I keep myself shut up in this room, and I keep waiting and thinking: “ Who will open that door? Will it be the person I want it to be? Will it be someone called Confidant? Someone called Friend? Will that someon...