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.