Shed

I'm done. I'm giving in my papers today. Today, I don't want it anymore. I don't want him, him or any other him near my personal space. These walls are going up and they're going up cemented. It's not going to be easy anymore, I promise. I'm not letting you, you or you anywhere close to my space. From now onwards, it's mine and mine alone and nothing is going to come close to making me want to share my life with anyone. At this point, I don't think anyone is deserving of my space and time. From now onwards, everybody is at one level. 

No, the girl who gives her heart to every puppy on the road is not changing. You haven't affected me that much. I just don't want any of you anymore. In fact, I'd like to thank you for taking time off your busy schedule to tell me that the problem is with me. Maybe it is, or maybe you're just not worth my heart.

For now she need not think about anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of—to think; well, not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others. Although she continued to knit, and sat upright, it was thus that she felt herself; and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures.

― Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse