whimsically not there.

Letting go, dreaming slow.  My muse used to bring me words, now I can’t face this empty screen.  We can write when we’re happy, but no one really wants literature that doesn’t bleed.  Isn’t that the truth?

I’m trying to document this pain so that later I’m not fooled by my own faux feelings.  I’m looking for my reflection in him and it will never be.  Don’t we al deserve a reflection of our own heart? I know I’ve been dying for it.  How many years have I been dating? I’m letting go because I have to, and I’ve never had to before.  It was always whimsically there if I REALLY wanted it.  It could have been salvaged, fought for.  But no, not this time.  There is no changing minds, hearts rather.  I can’t keep shaking him and asking why why why? 

Have I not learned anything from religion in all these years?  I’m as tragic at love as I was at religion.  Failing to understand, refusing to let go.  And I’ll probably change my mind at least a few more times.  How does a writer ever let go?  There’s that constant belief that the world you’re looking for is within reach.  I write only what I know, not fantasy.  So why is the fantasy all in my head? Too scared to see it in print because I know it can’t and won’t ever be.