Prisoner. Prisoner in a palace I'm being. Now waking up to it. Now letting myself feel things directly. Now realizing that I must allow myself to feel if I'm to _use_ my life, if I'm to make it more real and alive than the problems in it.
All I think about is Paul. Distancing things. It seems very clear to me that he's never had any sort of true love for me. He loves only how he feels about me, and not me. Selfish.
He's selfish. Like concrete, nothing could ever grow there. All pretension and false pride and forced virtue. It gets me sick to think how he's controlled me, and how his love was really control, and how I let it happen for such a long time.
Then I start to get angry and I have to stop thinking. I've been reading a book a day almost. I've never felt so much in fiction.
Miranda in The Collector. "His fairy tale."