I am the first to admit that, wherever it may stand in terms of morality, my current war of attrition represents an unusually jarring change of heart. It was not that long ago that I sat down to put pen to a letter, one which was nowhere near my best in terms of flow or force, but which certainly was a reflection of how I was feeling at the time -- conflicted, saddened, and hopeful that there would be some reciprocation in acknowledging a moment that was shared. Pathetic as that whole exercise seems now, I would be lying if I said that exercise wasn't genuine. Indeed, that's precisely why I found myself hurt, and why that was the last time I silently accepted that.

The current battle plan is a fairly simple refusal of their existence. Not particularly creative, but it is vaguely helpful in helping focus my mind on other things. Whenever this barrier is breached -- as today -- there are, of course, more convoluted plans that come to mind. Most of them center around an imaginary confrontation, where I for once speak honestly about the fundamental dishonesty that proved the final straw. But frankly, those fantasies are better off unrealised. Much better, I think, to focus on the future, and to write off another chapter in the morass that ever is my past.

Of course I feel slightly resentful at having to make this call. But, surprisingly, it doesn't quite carry the same overwhelming weight as my past errors have. Perhaps I'm just getting older, and tired of worrying about what roads lie ahead (or don't). Or perhaps because I feel I couldn't have done anything more on this occasion? This time at least I laid down all my cards; so what if they all added up to nought? Let them be lost with their other games, if that's what they choose. Just don't expect me to play along anymore.

I trust you didn't actually think I was going to end this exercise on that note.

I do owe some explanation, I realise, for the apparent abandonment of what was once my most treasured creation. But it's precisely because spelling this out is so difficult that I've been putting off a return. On reflection, a fair amount has happened since I last visited. There were waves of self-doubt on untold of scales, a bizarre return to the savage lands that caused me untold grief, and a painful extrication from what I once considered a friendship.

I hope to say more of each of these in time, but I suspect it's that last one that has partly contributed to a drying up of writing. Not that it wounded me so as to render me incapable of measured thought; rather, it angered me so much that I don't think I can do justice to that feeling. I know, I know, there's no doubt value in trying to approach all of this dispassionately again, and get to the root of things. But rest assured, this anger is very localised, and in no risk of engulfing my everyday thought. I actually go through days in relative peace, for reasons I shall perhaps detail some other time (and which perhaps also explain why I haven't felt the urge to visit sorrow's child as much). I have to really concentrate to tap into the bottomless fury that came with my last attempt at warmth being returned with apathy.

When it's summoned, of course, it takes a little while to die down. But time does not bother me as much these days.