Gone.

A fear of writing exists within because honestly often manages to find a place between prepositions and proper sentence structure. This honesty, the kind that you might wish to obscure, appears only when you’d least like it to, often at a time when you need to know nothing of it to preserve the order of things as they are.

It’s been realized. Any suggestion of dramatic overture is created purely to have something to think about, talk about, write about. The misery that you succumb to is purely in reaction to your preference for disorder. It becomes difficult to admit that you might be happy, whatever that may mean. This honesty, the kind that only comes when you forget to look for it, kills any fantastic exchange of dialogue you may have imagined, however satisfying it may seem. It is not real. Real in the sense that it happened, but unreal because you alone crafted the impetus for the trade of words.

There is no joy left in it. When the monster you have crafted is anything but. He is human, but not evil, not even calculating, no matter how hard you try to convince yourself of it. More honesty, the kind that is difficult to own up to, surges out of the cracks of the story you carefully pasted together. Now, there exists no reason to displace your inadequacy on the non-monster because you realize you are free, always have been. Free, but frightened, just learning to push boundaries or even how to find them. Afraid, really, of failure just like you always knew but just have begun to believe.

There will be no more sordid love affair, there never was one. It did exist but only because I created it and chose to live it like a never-ending script. It’s over because it has to be and I want it to be, there are much more compelling fractions of life lived to think about, talk about, write about. Instead of giving life to twisted fiction, I’ll just write it.