This is one of the only ways I relate.
Yet in this way I censor myself. How difficult it is to eke out anything.
If there's any way that I hate myself, it's the fact that I don't write, when writing is everything.
I don't know what kind of thick skull formed around me that I can't get anything out. Every impulse is deferred, whimpering out to never see the light of day.
I imagine it is this way with your love. That there is no rhyme or reason, it just doesn't make it out of the labyrinth of your mind alive.
Part of me didn't either. The part that doesn't talk, the part that forgets and forgets and is painfully reminded again and again. The part that sits in the dark and clutches at straws, plagued by everything illusory, fulfilling.
It's said that forgiveness involves letting go of a better past, but how much easier to make a better past in the mind instead of writing anything for the present?
The present vanishing, except for this... except for the past which is already gone.
And I am partly unmoved.