i made the decision to not write anymore, and i'm begining to realize that this is a good choice. at first i was somewhat skeptical about whether or not i could not write. but it seems something inside has shifted. hour upon hour of thinking of him, not being able to shove my thoughts to other subjects, relentlessly pouring over past experiences, past mistakes, thinking of the utterly fucked up path my life has taken, all that has led me to one singular realization. there is only one way to rectify, one way to redemption, it lies in the darkness of life, it rests in the souls of all that have gone before. no tomorrow exists eternally, life is just an endless series of sunsets, where silence is tangible, where laughter is mechanical, and every days dawns with the horrible promise of another day. theres nothing anymore, just a blank canvas i stare at, wishing to paint it any color, but i have lost the pigments, i have lost the heart to see anything beautiful. so i lose myself these days, in meaningless conversation, meaningless sex, meaningless work, but underneath it all something is building, my thoughts are becoming clear, my fate is becoming decided not by the universe, or by some god, but by the endlessness of silence, the finality of despair. its as if my soul is being herded into some chute that only gets narrower by the foot, and at the end lies the only thing left to do...set it free. such are the thoughts that compel, that strive for utterance in a world on fire. everything is burning all around, and i choose to step into the flame and become the inferno. become that which sears all rational thought, that which consumes, as i am consumed.