Sometimes I wonder why we stuck it out so long. Perhaps, there is genuine feeling there. At least on his part. So much anger in him each time. And each time, the frisson smirks at me, and each time I fear, that this time, I have had gone too far, pushed him past the boundary of no return, used up all his love, (love isn't an infinite source where humanity is concerned), and I will be alone again.

Alone. No emotional crutch. No one except myself and the unshakeable sense of emptiness.

I feel like a simulacrum. I lack a metaphorical heart. I don't think I can manifest true feeling for anyone except for myself. It makes me feel inchoate, incomplete, a mere two-dimensional image of a human. The fault lies in me. I feel vaguely guilty for it. But even then, in this liminal periphery, the mind has to push and prod for me to even admit to an adumbration of remorse.

Even right now, as I type this, it is mere habit. The brain is following the old well worn stairways of lush emotional response, mimicking, rather than truly experiencing real emotion. I feel saturated to the point where nothing excites anymore. Nothing quickens in me. Nothing is of importance.

That is why I stopped writing. Because. It doesn't feel real anymore. I don't feel real anymore.