I don't know what it is about India that unearths the writer in me. The long periods of silence. The vastly empty days punctuated only by meals and tea and the occasional guest. The smells, the myriad of sounds, the vibrant colors. Perhaps it's a bit of everything that forces me to break down this wall I've erected to preserve this feeling of numbness.

I read somewhere that we only accept the love we think we deserve. These days I feel like I'm not worthy of love. In any form. By anyone. I feel like a pretty crummy person for so many reasons. I will never be what they expect me to be. I will always disappoint. I will always be just a little less than what's needed. And I'll have all the regrets that I've carried with me. Those that keep adding on. I haven't done a lot in the past year to be able to stand up for myself or the person I've become. I don't deserve your love. Never have. Perhaps never will. I'm just not suited for this. And for that I'm sorry.