I lost part of myself several years ago, and have only been going through her vacant motions ever since her disappearance. I have trouble feeling nurturing toward anyone or anything, and overcompensate by giving off the impression of being excessively everything I wish I still were. My heart is dead, and all of my motives are secretly selfish. I am full of pride, and even now while I am writing this, I am thinking about how others will perceive it, hoping they will find my sincerity clever or brave instead of feeling distanced by the magnitude of my previous lack of authenticity. I imagine that being honest about being dishonest could unravel the things I have bound and lift every curtain that hid the emptiness, breaking me open until the room would suddenly fill with light and would give off the illusion of never having been truly vacant. I know better. This illumination reveals the barren walls rather than painting them with substance, and I am nakedly nothing. My temple waits to be refilled, drawing in all of the love I can gather or steal, burning to ashes while providing neither light nor warmth, truth nor love. I worship both, but own neither. In order for one to be effective, I must have both, or else each is rendered dangerous, the inauthentic love of lies or the brutal attraction to loveless truth that only empowers the unloving core. Having no love, I choose to remove truth as well, to avoid the disaster of imbalance. This is the wrong direction, and I know it. I continue my implosion even with awareness of how my disaster is structured.