There’s nothing to write. You don’t feel anything for me anymore. So there’s nothing to write. I go each day trying hard not to think. It’s tempting to go off and daydream. I liked going over each little memory and the details they encompassed. But there’s nothing to write. Each night I come home. Putting off my drive to my house, to my room, to every little thing I denied all day. And it tries to come and grab me. It tries to take control. Sometimes I let it. It’s like I’m going crazy. I can’t breath. I get pains in my chest. I don’t know if it’s from smoking or having too much caffeine. But there’s nothing to write. The nights come faster and the memories stay remembered. It’s all fresh. But all that I want, all I could dream to have, stays far away. It’s unobtainable perhaps. And there’s nothing to write. I could describe my tears. I could describe my hurt. I could describe at night how my empty house echoes with sadness I tell it. I haven’t spoken with you. And I haven’t written. Maybe it is you. Maybe it’s me. But there’s nothing to write. And this is starting to hurt. Knowing there isn’t a thing you want to say, and many things I would scream, it hurts. But there’s nothing to write. So let my monotone way of life, my ongoing struggle, my attempt at being a walking machine, let that become my reality. I no longer wish to think, because there’s nothing to write anyway.