This has been going on too long.

See, what I do is I write these entries in Outlook Express. Just like I'm writing an email. That way I can get it spell-checked before I copy and paste it into my blogging software. My blogging software doesn't check spelling. Weird, I know.

Anyway, what's been going on too long is that I've been sitting here with my fingers poised over the keyboard, my eyes staring at a blank email-composition window, for oh about a gazillion years now.

Waiting for inspiration, you know.

It's not coming, though. I give up. There must have been some misunderstanding, because I was sure that inspiration and I had an appointment for this morning.

I guess I'm feeling better now than I was Wednesday. I still feel a little subdued, though. Just a combination of a lot of things. Not really feeling very motivated to do anything because it would probably be a waste of time. I dunno, that's just how I feel nowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

Weird, my keyboard just broke. Luckily I have a million keyboards lying around, so I was able to get working again.

Too bad I forgot what I was going to write about. It was gonna be brilliant, I bet.

I'm feeling jealous today. A little mad, too. These feelings will pass. They always do. Only one thing is constant.

And, before too long if it hasn't happened already, the tables will turn, and I'll be the one being envied.

I don't like these thoughts, but neither do I fight them. I just notice them and maybe use them to understand myself a little better. This stuff is interesting to me, the changes that are happening inside me. The back and forth that occurs as I try to find a new equilibrium in this new reality. I sway a lot these days, but I haven't fallen in a long time. Perhaps that power is no longer hers.

None of this can be forced. I've tried and I've failed to rush this. I just have to let it happen, and hope that eventually I'll be better. But if not, then at least I'll still be me, and not some liar denier pretender. I'd much rather be miserable and true to myself than happy and deceptive.

But still, I don't like these particular thoughts. They end badly, for they lead me to a truth that, even now, I'm not ready to accept.

I dunno. It'll pass, I suppose.

I made a choice once. No really, I did. In November.

It was the first choice I'd made since it all began. I went against every instinct and feeling that I had, and I chose to stop. To give up. To turn my back. To walk away. No matter how you want to phrase it, this thing, this last thing, this ending, it was my choice.

I won't lie; I second-guess that choice every single day. Sometimes I regret it, and sometimes I agree with it. Usually, though, I just wish I'd never found myself in a position where I had to make that choice at all.

It's a sneaky bastard, that's what it is. And fucking persistent.

I lock the doors and I bar the windows, and I think I'm safe. I'm not safe. It gets in. It wends its way through the tiniest cracks in my soul.

Hope for what, exactly?

For a chance? That time expired a long time ago.

For a miracle? Nope. Too little, too late.

Maybe, I think, for a series of miracles. At least a dozen of them, each more improbable than the last, culminating in a singularity of...

...something.

I don't know. I just don't.

To nonsensically need what I don't want. To desperately want what I don't need. To count on the impossible. To deny the inevitable. All are true, and all are false.

People say that it's good that I'm finally getting better, finally getting over this, finally moving on.

Those people can suck my dick.

Those people have no idea what it is to be me and to go through this.

To kill yourself, and hope that there's an afterlife.

Or that there's not.

I don't know how to describe this well. I know how to describe it badly, though, and so I guess that's what I'm about to do. You've been warned.

It's like I'm made, not of water and bone and goo, but of clay. Hundred of bits of clay, all stuck together. Ranging in size from that of a marble to that of, say, a baseball.

I walk around, I exist, I go through the motions of life like an actual normal person, but every now and then, a piece of me falls off. It falls off, and it hits the ground, and usually it shatters.

I always notice it, when a part of me falls like that. It's not really painful, not like it used to be, it just something I notice. On those occasions when the piece doesn't shatter, I usually pick it up and try to stick it back on, like sticking a piece of wet clay back onto its vase. It never sticks though. It always falls again. I eventually give up.

What's gone is gone, right?

Right?

But I can't help but wonder what will happen when I run out of clay. When there's nothing left of me to fall.

There, I feel better now. I've had this stupid clay metaphor stuck in my head for weeks.

Tonight CartGirl and I spent time on facebook, looking for people. My old girlfriends, her old boyfriends. First loves, last loves, friends and enemies, people like that. Just getting to know more about each other, hanging out together, having fun. Our circles overlap in a few unexpected places, that's for sure.

One of her ex-boyfriends was already on my friends list. That was weird. CartGirl says they parted amicably, so I'm not going to be weird about it the next time I see my friend.

We looked up my ex-wife's kids, who used to be my kids if you use a particular definition and squint a certain way.

I always thought I'd recognize them, if I saw them again. But I was wrong. I looked at pictures of strangers tonight. She looks like a more beautiful version of her mother now, not like the awkward toddler I remember. And he is really tall and old-looking. though the smile is the same.

I think about them every now and then, not too often, though. The appropriate amount, I think. I expect they've had a good life so far. I hope so.