I don't know why I'm writing. I'm writing about not being able to write. Which is a paradox.
H.I.S. requires more and more effort; effort that I'm drained of by my current 40-hour work week. My guitar - my singing - it's all fallen by the wayside. And all I can do is self-medicate and wish it away.
The social ties are fading - that much I realize. With a few select people, they are remaining intact, but so many more are falling apart - simply because I can't be what they perceive me to be anymore.
Julian is in a stasis. I can feel him asking: "And now what?" and it's driving me mad. He deserves closure; an end. And yet I cannot seem to give him that.
Short post. Small thoughts.
-M
