of your eyes, begonia skies

there is no such thing as a home.  we are mere individuals brought together via kinship and circumstance, strung together with obligation and ties we will never be able to undo.  and i say this now because i don't feel loved, neither do i possess any capacity to love any of you anymore or any further. how am i to know what home is if living here makes me increasingly certain that i want nothing more than to live alone, i want nothing more than to die alone and be in loneliness and solitude and whatever woes and pains that life could thrust at people and i am more than certain that i am not saying any of this out of impulse or immense anger but i am saying because i know that i have given up on love completely and wholly and i do not know or want to know how to love anymore.  feelings are nothing but delusional and honestly all kinds of overrated — i don't need to follow or listen to my heart anymore and any longer i am tired of feeling this way every single time i do i am reminded of how i've never learnt from my mistakes, how you keep picking yourself up and throwing yourself down the same very chimney into the same fucking fireplace that promises you warmth and love and everything lofty and ideal but stop you need to know that you will catch fire and the flames will burn you and you will be left with nothing but embers stop and leave and bid your farewells i'm done i'm done i'm really done