Sorry friends; the broken-hearted find it difficult to write. Truer yet, the broken-hearted know there is truth in words, and so sometimes turn away from them for fear the power they hold.

Cass was unfaithful and that’s all I’ll say. Single again and that’s fine with me. It’s where we were headed anyway…But I won’t say the circumstances don’t tear at my flesh like maggots gone rabid. Disturbed? Imagine more. Imagine a sleepless night, the film reels ticking nervously in your mind’s eye from dusk until dawn. Imagine scenes so marred that even the soft call of birds in the morning light does not cheer you up. You rise. Put on music because you don’t want to write, don’t want to read. You stare and stare and stare. Eventually you eat an apple, drenched in all the salt tears you have wept.

What matters is what I have right now, in this moment. And all I have is who I am in the world any given second. The seconds seem to add up into solid moments and ways of being, but really each breath is just a random dot on a placeless map. We like to attach emotion and meaning to those “moments.” It’s what we build the stories of our lives on. Hope hurts in the end for all its projections.

I am weary of the hurt. Would rather write my book, hide out in the mountains, give my heart only to friends who know how to cherish it. I am rock. I am steady. I am nothing but here. Now. Free of past or future. That’s the only way to endure.

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