Breaking Up Really Isn't Hard To Do

I haven't written anything in months. I'm ashamed of myself, really. Blank pages intimidate now instead of provoking me to fill them with whatever inane dribble that fills the catacomb of my mind. What happened?

I can faintly hear my muse. She never left, she only bides her time waiting on me to pull my shit together and get back in the game. She's particular about the company I keep. I've purged myself of undesirables. Perhaps that's why she's whispering to me once again.

My days are proudly wearing now. Hope is something I typically don't allow myself. Its always been a privilege for others but never applicable to me. Disappointment doesn't strike me as deeply as it once did. Its blade has dulled and shrank in lieu of a more suited affliction; happiness.

I don't know why I always decide to write in the early hours of the morning when sleep escapes me and the only thing that keeps me company is the hum of electronics. Everyone else is sleeping soundly as one should at six a.m. Why am I awake?

Regardless, I'll find my way back here more often and remain faithful to this lifelong romance.