Sometimes I still think I want him. And then I realize I really don’t. That’s when it ends.
You can feel it when it’s happening. They stop texting you as often. The enthusiasm leaves their voice. They leave you on read. Like sand leaving your grasp, an hourglass turned over.
A relationship. You wanted a relationship. The dreams are vivid at first but as the sand grains flow they turn grayscale and lose detail.
You begin to feel like an acquaintance when before every aspect of their life was known to you. Shared like you belonged.
I think it’s a graceful end.
Let’s just get to the point: it’s like I’ve been wrapped up in some kind of pervasive writer’s block for the past few years. I mean… come on, if I can’t even journal on a semi-regular basis, what’s an aspiring writer supposed to do? Write?
From what I’ve read on the internet, that’s actually true. To overcome writer’s block, I need to write my brains out. Explore every single snippet of life, uncover every detail, usurp any semblance of privacy, and drill down to the core of my very being.
One thing I’ve noticed about myself is that I live for the dream. Some kind of idealization, a glittering sort of faint hope. I’ll become rich someday. Life will suddenly transform, terraformed with a Godly hand, into something much more enjoyable.
They say that you can’t buy happiness, but with ample financial padding you certainly have the tools to make yourself happy.
In short: a game plan, some semblance of a list, bullet points on paper, will help me ascend into my best self. Myself.