I remember the days when I would sit down at the computer and write something witty or culturally relevant or some diatribe about the world in which we live. (Just because you don’t remember, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen!) Sometimes it would be a thought that would be clanging around in my head for days before finding its Mecca on the page. Other times, I would sit and the words would simply flow from my fingers and I would be nearly as surprised at what resulted as would a total stranger looking over my shoulder. (I really shouldn’t have said that while I am sitting alone in my house in a dimly lit room—kinda creeped out all the sudden.) I feel the need to write right now. To let my fingers have more contact with my subconscious than my mind. Already there is a bit of relief in just this simple fix of my addiction. However, there isn’t anything of worth or anything novel that is going to flow. I simply want to write about all I’ve been writing about for nearly forever, it seems. To write about what each Saturday, marking one more week, is like. To blabber on about how afraid I am for that moment--the first time that I see him out without warning, at a mutual friend’s birthday party, at a movie, at dinner. . . how I hate going anywhere for fear of what might transpire. To sigh as I brag about how good I have been doing about shoving him out of my mind whenever he floats in trying to slice me deeper, yet how simultaneously, unable to stop the confusion and constant ache that is the ever-increasing core of me. I’d like to say all those things. All those things and more. I’d like to. But, I won’t. I won’t even mention them. You’ll never know they were on my mind. You’ll never know that if only I would have said them, answers would have come. Comfort would have arrived. Hell, maybe a nock on my door that announced a return to the life I loved. Fuck, if nothing, maybe just sanity. But, I’ll never say or type those words. Thank goodness I didn’t. You’ll never know. If only I could be so lucky.