"Every day we slaughter our finest impulses..

...That is why we get a heart-ache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, to discover what is already there."

Letters, novels, plays that don't get written. The things that I've wanted to say, but have been to afraid to say. The profound sense of loss, of hurt, of despair that I have been completely numbing myself to. All of these things are swelling up inside me now for some reason, and it's all just too much. These things that I should have been over a year ago or more are just now rising to the surface. And now, I feel cheated. I feel that I never got to have that moment of release, that cathartic ending, that "last goodbye." And you know, I'm fucking angry about it. Instead, being weak, and stupid, and insecure, I allowed this destructive bullshit to continue over and over again, until it literally sucked the joy out of me. I knew I deserved more and better, and still, I settled. I allowed myself, and my home to offer sanctuary to a wandering and un-whole soul which I never had a chance of healing. So now what? How do I get what I need out of this situation? WHAT do I need out of this situation. I feel the need to hurt as I've been hurt. To emotionally wound, and stunt, and then to walk away. But what does that make me? It makes me no better than the one who hurt me. That can't be an option. I did not have that kind of anger in me before he got a hold of me. I did not wish to harm. And now I do. That is profound. That is terrifying.

I want my books back. It gnaws at me, this knowledge that precious words - words that changed me - were thoughtlessly appropriated, perhaps tossed in a box somewhere and forgotten by this person that I once cared so deeply about. How could I have been so careless with these words? How could I have been so careless with myself? I find it a saddening testament to the entire situation that I would trade every incredible moment shared, every lesson learned, every new experience, EVERYTHING - for never having known him. When I think of it, I can feel regret, and hate, and emptiness. And so, I am worse off than if we never met. Perhaps that's the most staggering realization of all.