There was a time I believed in us, believed in the purity of what we had. Our future. There was a time when I knew we would last. I had painted our future for the next nine years.

Now it seems so far. The silence etching huge distances between us. No one could have told me that we could end, that we would end. That I was the one who would end it.

What went wrong?

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"I think writing requires the same kind of attention, of commitment, of love, that people do. To be faithful to a story even when it fails me, to come back to it again and again when I worry that I may never make it work, that it may always disappoint me, that everything I've put into it could be lost--to know this, yet still keep writing--what could that be, if not love?

...Because when I sit down, like this, in the middle of the night, pen in hand, something outside of myself tells me to keep going, for hours, to never, never stop... until it's not me writing the story anymore, but the story writing me."

--Margo Rabb, short story How to tell a story

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Great movie:
"DER TUNNEL"

by Roland Suso Richter (with Heino Ferch).

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For a few days, things will seem to improve and then suddenly there will be this crash and I'll be down again (crawling and fighting to get back up). I'm fragile, weak, and exhausted. Also trying to figure out how to keep fighting and if I have the necessary stamina.

A car crash. An argument last night with my partner. Laundry today followed by a searing depression.

Hoping to emerge from this.

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