I've been trying to write, I really have. I observe every day, and I want to share. I feel love and joy at a level of intensity that continues to amaze me, and I want to be self-consciously eloquent about it. I feel fear and panic during new experiences, about wading through waters that feel much deeper than they really are, and I want to share, for the relief of catharsis. But I'm unable to put pen to paper; to place fingers on keys. Lately, whenever I have felt like writing, you have taken over and occupied my entire mind.

It's quite frustrating, really. I think I've made progress, which I actually have, in many healthy ways. But when I peel off the layers and examine the wound, I see it's still a little pink, exposing itself to you and your absence, your presence. I want to ignore it so that it can scab over in its own time and protect my skin. But as always, time moves as slowly as I wish it wouldn't.

And so I try, which, it seems, is all I can do. And I hope that eventually, you'll leave.