Sometimes I feel like Joseph of Arimathea, that I have (metaphysical) wounds that never fester, but never heal. I wonder, if I possessed a mirror with which to look at them, what would I see?

And the problem with such wounds is no one, not even myself, is aware of their exact location, so a lover or a friend might easily graze them unware of (and unresponsible for) the pain they caused.

I prefer to be alone because then I can never be hurt. I hardly ever feel lonely.