It's been a while since I've heard David's voice. In the intervening years, I haven't really thought about him all that often -- being generous, it has been, maybe, three or four times? Somewhere at the back of my mind, I think I had a fear that if I set aside the time and really listened again, I'd have to conclude that...he didn't really speak to me anymore. There have been many changes in my life and mind, and it surely meant something that neither of them saw the need to call to him. It would be best, then, to keep sealed whatever pleasant memories that remained, and spare him from the cold, harsh judgement my current self seems oddly adept at.

Parts of those fear were true enough -- I no longer define the boundaries of my mind by song, or anything, really. To say that there is a deep dark where once there was feeling sounds depressive, but I don't see it that way; it's just a different way of being. I say dark, and not emptiness, because there is something hidden away there -- something I don't feel the inclination to dig out and reflect upon, but a presence nonetheless. And there are still sparks that can bring light to this crypt, even if for a moment, and bring a familiar wave of feeling. David, I'm pleased to say, is one of them.

I still remember walking on an unremarkable path, humming his words to myself, remarking at the gift I was bestowed -- being able to carry those words with me, use them as a shield, a sword, and many things more in all manner of internal battle. After many years, it is hard to say if I won or lost the war; is this silence that of peace, or imprisonment? Either way, no one writes to the colonel, and he doesn't much feel the need to call for reinforcements.

I also remember an intense feeling I had, many times during that period, where I was convinced that next to the power of a well-crafted word, all else was immaterial. Studying, and responding to, these words was then the only thing of any value or meaning. I could see that, feel that, and yet could not act, bound as I was (as I am) by the statutes of a world and life grounded in rigour. The years have only made this disparity worse, even if that fact no longer pains me as much (or at all). But what is hidden is not forgotten. Life may be proceeding at a nauseating pace, but all this time will have to pause, eventually. And when it does, I know the first person who I hope will call again.

 In years gone by, I declared myself to have a proclivity to play the role of Observer rather than Experiencer, and focussed considerable energy on lamenting this regrettable state of affairs. The one consolation was that, as Observer, I could easily transition to Recorder, and make a detailed tabulation of every inclination and introspection substantive enough to survive transcription. The larger value of this exercise notwithstanding, at least there was something to show for all this Observing.

What does it mean, then, that now Recording requires an energy I simply do not possess? On occasion, I have pondered if it signifies a slip into a state of deep and perpetual ennui, if not worse. Well I wonder. Perhaps by treating events as just that, rather than Lessons, I inadvertently grow closer to being an actual Experiencer. Without the self getting in the way and muddying things, events can take their natural cosmic course and just happen. There is someone to greet them, of course; but does that someone really have to be me?

True enough, there is no longer a record of them, so it is not immediate to the external world that they (or anything else) transpired. This is by no means a great loss, but does make reminiscence more vulnerable to the vagaries of memory. The trick, then, is to be able to detach the Experiencing and Recording selves, to simultaneously be and not be in every moment of import. That seems a goal worthy of a lifetime of meditation, but, frankly, is a summit I doubt I shall master. More likely, I shall have to be content with these ghosts of memory, whose faint wisps come into view under very particular circumstances -- a lull in daily life, an external stimuli, and a familiar temporal landmark, amongst them. If their trails are soft, softer still are my attempts at preserving them; but, for now, let them be a reminder that there is still something beyond the quotidian demands, a quest that does not yield just because you do.

Whether a natural evolution or forced conversion, I find myself less inclined to take up the pen these days. On occasions when I reflect on this strange turn of events, I sometimes worry it reflects of a deeper internal regression than I have the energy to confront. Other times, I am almost pleased at the thought that I am beyond the juvenile need to record and dissect my every fleeting moment.

For whatever reason, today I awoke with a gnawing feeling. A mix of nostalgia, sorrow, happiness that I do not know how to process. So I turn to you.

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.

What you chose to kill
I choose to bury
Our past shall haunt
No more

How sweetly it beckons
With a song so merry
But still I will seal
This door.

I am sole witness
To the rites today
So words I've no need
To tell

But since you asked
I guess I'd say
Good riddance
Or farewell.

I don't own you; you don't owe me; but I may as well admit, you've hurt me. Six months on, and I've just about worked up the strength to pry open the door to the tomb, and stare at the outside world. And the first sight I see is your beaming smile, one which I have to painfully mimic as you tell me the big news: you've met someone, and this time it's serious.

Was I the more loving, or just the more foolish one? I gave you everything -- the only thing -- I had: an earnest heart, which was filled only with the thought that you were its one rightful captor. I can accept that circumstance meant that could not be. But I am surprised you could go hunting again so soon.

Of course I hope you find happiness, and all my prayers are with you. But would that for once, someone pray for the phantom who now retreats back into his cell. Even if the chance at equal affection has passed, a drop of compassion goes a long way in the dungeons.

Winter's harsh enough without us having to force our hearts frozen shut. The sky is an oppressive grey, and the sun is many hours away from even considering an appearance. Tucked away in my quilt, I feel warm in body but utterly chilled everywhere else. It will be some time yet before the images of you start to thaw. Sometimes, it seems easier to just go back to sleep, in hopes of a dream of pitch black.

I keep thinking that there must be some better way of playing this game, and that surely there is a happy medium than the callous isolation that I have found myself left in. But, I'm willing to accept that there is much I don't know about these matters. Whatever the case may be, it's clear enough that the state I'm in simply can't continue. Where exactly does that leave me? I know standard response is to try and move on. I just can't imagine staring into another set of eyes, though. Not now, and not for a while yet. Which might have been alright ten years ago, but time is another ally I found a way to betray.

I'm willing to accept that situations like this aren't anyone's fault in particular. It is however only natural to ask why I seem to find myself on the receiving end of so many failures. If, for sake of argument, there is some arbiter that chooses not to intervene, but rather attempts to educate us through our mistakes, I would simply implore them to consider the possibility that some people are beyond learning. It's not as though I don't have all the information in front of me, the cold facts as to the choices I made that left me shipwrecked. I think I can even put together the puzzle pieces. It's just that I don't want to acknowledge the picture I then see.

I'm almost entombed here, amongst boxes, papers, and other scraps of the past that simply will not let me go. Having lost her convincingly, it's hard not to look back at the last four years as some kind of failure. Not so much professionally -- though of course there is plenty of room for that interpretation -- than in terms of actual emotional progress, where I can't point to anything meaningful.

Having successfully pushed myself away from everyone who ever had a kind thought about me, my days are spent hiding away from the outside world, and myself. There is a desperation in my attempts to fill up the never ending hours that offer themselves, where all of life's treats and mysteries are available, but seem profoundly empty as I think of partaking them just by myself. I don't know the exact moment where I cut off the last healthy friendship, but it was long enough ago that now even the suggestion of an outing is enough to get me through the week.

Oh, I will admit it -- she still occupies my mind far more than is healthy or helpful. I still can't quite figure out what lesson I'm supposed to take away from the whole experience. While I'm more than happy to flagellate myself for my many failings, on this particular occasion, I'm not sure I'd done anything so profoundly evil as to deserve being so cruelly denied an opportunity of happiness. I replay several key moments again and again, perhaps in hopes that through some sorcery I might go back to those times. And when on occasion she leaves me a short note, or just otherwise lets me know that I'm not completely out of her life, I have to work hard to suppress those giddy feelings of hope, that perhaps this is the restart that I've been spending all my idle hours conjuring. But, curled up in a cold room, speaking these words that she will never read, it's all too clear that this is just more fantasy. And I don't know what to do about it.

I know that this life cannot be sustained. I've had many hours of joy in this particular corner of the world, and on balance, it's probably the best place I've ever lived. But -- and I don't know this is a self fulfilling prophecy -- all things have their time. The last few months, my daily routine has been nothing short of shambolic. With no alarm to guide me, or introduce any source of rigour in my life, I sluggishly toss off the sheets only when I feel like it. And I very rarely feel like it at anything approaching a normal work day time.

Shattering though the isolation is in the office, it's nothing compared to what awaits me as I may be slow trudge home, my only companion the dull streetlights and the occasional junkie. I used to try to make a point of not staying too late as a habit, not unless there was something particularly important to be done. But now I either invent things to do, or simply find creative ways of killing time, just so that I don't have to face that horrid question: how do I go about unwinding? Ordinarily, this wouldn't be a particular problem. My many solitary interests are still very much in effect, even if some require a certain rekindling. But there has been an alarming trend towards them being the absolute only thing that governs my life.

Put plainly, I simply don't go out anymore; Because I have no one to go out with. In part this is a statement about the peculiarities of my workplace, but that also suggests a key flaw and how I try to forge friendships here. Maybe this is all part of adult life, or at least, adult life when you're entirely on your own. I know, this is the life I've chosen. But I didn't appreciate the things that made it bearable.

So, fine, you might say, then figure out a way of changing that situation. But I can't think of anything that doesn't require a massive purging of whatever few things I have set up as pillars that define me. My career, for example. Despite all my misgivings about it, I suppose my actions speak for themselves, and that I have chosen it over life.