the threads in her head

pen to paper-

I told myself if I was worth it you would come back. Well.

I wasn't.

Some days I don't know what really hurts. Is it your absence? The lack of your presence and all that is familiar? The steadiness and comfort I used to be able find in your warm smell? Or is it the shattered dreams, the promises you made and which, now and then again, replays in my mind. Your sleepy murmurs that, yes, you will be with me forever in my ear. Dreams that were yours too, once, images of us in a car driving down the road. You would be at the wheel and I would be at the passenger seat naturally, and we would be laughing, laughing at something, laughing till my cheeks hurt and you wonder why I'm so silly.

Or is it the feeling of worthlessness and uselessness, wondering "what if, what if". What if I had changed, whatever it was that you wanted me to change. What if it was miscommunication.

Not that I would ever know.

**

I'm sorry. I used to be able to write more elegantly. Coherently. Now I blabber. Nonsensically.

Writing used to be a way to figure out my thoughts. Understood what was going on, how exactly I felt, how painful it was. It made sense, the words forming a soothing flow, an emotional logic. But lately it is jumbled. Tangled and tongue-tied.

I used to date emotions. They were in their own way, an indulgence. An escape. In the words and the sentences and the stories they formed, the yearnings they conveyed, I could escape. As a teenager growing up, faced with growing responsibilities and change in roles, writing helped to make some sense of what was going on. Emotions were in some way, a tool. The more I hurt and feel, the better I could write, I thought. I still think that is true to some extent.

Feeling allowed me to understood the world around me better. To know pain, to empathise, to know sadness and sorrow. To know of silly little dreams not fulfilled. My emotions were funneled, distilled, came out in digital pixels to form letters, words, meaning.

I felt I had few friends. I don't know if I really did, but that's what I felt, and I dated my emotions, my writing, my blog.

But now, here, today, eight months into the year, I feel like I can't compose, I feel like words are lost. I can't channel the feelings, I can't change them into words, they're just a tide of emotions, sudden tears, memories and ghosts. I've lost a friend and I've lost part of myself, although I don't know what it is. But something is gone.

There has been less reflections, more actions. Or should I say reactions? As I stay up late again unable to sleep, at a time where in the past I would be talking to you, I flick through webpages after webpages, looking for something I can react to, looking for something to fill up, fill up...

Fill up this aching space and loneliness.