Things have been worse.
It's just... neutral. Sometimes downright unpleasant, at instants almost enjoyable. Scientists like to call this state of mind anhedonia. Indeed, it's the opposite of finding pleasure in everything: unable to find pleasure in anything.
It's just. Your birthday's coming up, and there's all these books I'd like to share with you, discuss with you, enrich your life with. This protagonist I discovered with whom you've got so much in common: I wish you'd be here to tell me if I'm right to say so. Dreamt of sending you the book, the books - the dreams fade away as quickly as the beautiful morning skies these past weeks, changing into grey.
It's just that. Nothing's fading. Which I'm thankful for, even though it's unnecessary to keep all my memories of you, when they eventually only hurt me.
It's just that. Nothing's fading yet, and I am holding on so hard, ignoring everything else, everyone else. Why bother socializing, when these endings are all I ever get. Whilst I try not to let fatality get at me, she so easily slips into my life. She always has. In a strange way I should even be grateful: fatalism got me through many a day, even if that's in a past far far away now.
It's just that. It's been over for so many days now and I still can't seem to get used to it. Some girl once told I'm special, for not sleeping around because I just can't, getting hurt and attached too much. I smiled at her while she gave me her verdict, while she friendly judged me. Glued my wildy dilated pupils to hers, desperately looking for wisdom I had yet to gain.
So much time gets lost in this recovery. I smiled, but I should've admitted I hate it.