I awakened without a kiss, had breakfast alone, dressed without talk; I had nobody to brush, to kiss good-bye; I am having lunch with Mother, and tonight I will sleep alone again. Am I glad to be alone? Was there anything I wanted to do while Hugh (her husband) is away that I cannot do when he is here? No. I miss him deeply, I have no desires, no joy at my independence; and I feel as if i were half alive. this wonderful life I praise so often seems blank and stupid today. I could do without my mirror, without lovely clothes, without sunshine - none of these things are necessary when I am alone. I did a few things to take advantage of my solitude, sleeping on the left side of the bed, which I prefer to the right, and wearing gloves with cold cream. And then, of course, I was glad to have the bathroom to myself. Usually i have to scratch the door and 'miaow' desperately to be allowed in, and even then I often get a shoe or a clothes brush on the head. Also, I slept in fifteen minutes longer than usual.
Is my inability to love based on fear of vulnerability & lack of spiritual generosity; or is it the profound belief in the utter hopelessness of human love? I think it is the latter, but it may be the former. I've never once tried. It's almost as if I know it's foredoomed; and yet of course I don't know. One thing is certainly true about me at the present moment: I have no desire for life. Even as I write this, the awful feeling of guilt about such an admission makes me want to erase it. Why on earth commit such a thing to paper? I suppose all diarists are lonely and uncreative people.
Taken, as always, from The Assassin's Cloak.