I used to write every day. Hard to believe, but true. I kept a writing journal, which I stumbled across today. At first, there were many days with zeros in them, signifying that I had not written a thing. Those faded quickly into numbers. If they were circled, they were completed pages of fiction, if not, they were lines of poetry. Not everything was useful, and sometimes the numbers were low, but they were not zeros.

Over the last year, I have lied a lot, but never about my writing.

The last ten days have been a whirlwind. I was supposed to move in with a girl last Wednesday, in St. Louis. I moved back to my hometown last Thursday. I talked to said girl most of the weekend, probably because she was so ingrained in my daily life I couldn’t possibly stand to let her go. I haven’t talked to her since Monday morning, but I will admit to trying to call. I don’t think I have today, and that’s a little bit of an accomplishment for me.

I can’t believe how weak I became over this. I lost my life, and I readily let it go, over this relationship. With a married woman, to boot. And there’s no point to it. She wants her husband back; he wants to take her back. I can’t and won’t stand between that. I won’t even try.

But I won’t lie about it, either.

I fought a battle, and lost. I fought for her, but she didn’t want to fight for me. Fair enough. It’s taken so much just to type out this little bit, to make this small admittance not only to myself, but to place it here, for my friends and peers. I’m a writer, and I’m not writing. I make excuses and let sadness make more excuses for me. I want to move past all that and write. Every day. Just like before.