There is fiction in the space between you and me

I’ve tried. I have tried and I cannot live this lie.

I sit all day writing and sending out all my love’s energy into the great wide open sky, hoping that like a boomerang it will come back to me.

How can you choose to live without affection? Everything is so empty without it, and yet, you seem fixed to find another way.

Of all the untruths, this is by far the worst. I can’t do it anymore. I’m so tired. My spirit is completely broken and the despair has made me physically ill time and time again. It’s pointless to write and behave like everything is OK, when it’s not. When every action is hallow, every word just a guise for the suffering.

I’m just defeated and it’s no use trying to ignore and push past it. Some wounds go away over time, others get infected and spread throughout the body until it’s corrupted everything. I’ve been inflicted, I’m afraid, with the latter.

I keep hoping this will turn out to be some great novel, that I can find a way to get my characters all that they desire, but I cannot yet find the words, or the actions. It seems impossible, and yet, I’m constantly trying, consumed by the effort to make you see something real and something owed to us.

I try so hard I wind up under nourished and sleep deprived. And I just don’t think I have the strength to pretend that I’m OK with all of this. Do you?

Can you live this lie for the rest of your life?