Friendships so close that a breath will not pass between them. Relationships closer than that of brother and sister, mother and child. Each one lasting for a period of time then ending in some mysterious dark way that is incomprehensible.
Patterns like this are not by chance.
They become the pattern of lives torn by insecurity and fear. Voices from the past interfere with the present, creating echoes that drown out the present and recreate the past. A new play, a new plot, same central character, same ending.
There is no point in labeling, no point in looking for the cause, because reason is not present. Unhappiness breeds like rabbits. It finds fault with the sunshine and the rain, the noise and the silence, the doing and the not doing. It is black or white, for me, or against me and there is no need to talk about it because the only truth comes from me. Everyone else is wrong unless they agree with me.
The voices in the attic are so loud they block out reality.
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