We began so cordially only to quickly be inseparable. You were an extension of my thoughts, a constant reminder of ideas that came to me in different places at different times. You were the hard evidence that chronicled my consistent observations of the world around me, the interesting passages I’d quote from essays or interviews, the pages of fiction books I’d jot down to reference later, the advise a writing instructor would give… all in all, you helped me in making links between this and that, and now I see my creativity shine in you.
Yet somehow, we managed to drift apart. I know I’m to blame. You see, I have to finally confess something: there’s someone else. Don’t disapprove before hearing me out. It’s not your fault. You’ve been good to me – loyal and helpful – you always pulled me through when I was stuck. You motivated me to write. I remember those hazy nights with a bottle of whisky after training, my muscles sore and aching, my feet up on the couch, The Doors playing in the background with the lights dimmed all the way, you’d be there next to me, pencil in hand (for I never liked using a pen with you), and I dreamed. Boy did I dream. And drank. And then it happened. Thoughts, ideas, raw inspiration flowed through me and my hand moved to scribble down the river of words as fast as it could. Although I’m limited by my physical abilities (I suppose you wouldn’t understand what that’s like), I’d still be able to decipher most of what was written later. Then came the exhaustion and the heaviness from tiredness and too much drink. I never dared look at you the next day. An orgasmic intimacy, it needed time to settle before I’d once again have the courage to ask you out. We begun our dates with reminisces and then, once the chemistry was right, we’d connect.
It’s with much self-loathing that I haven’t asked you out. I’m no longer the same man as I’m weighed down by responsibility. The love I gave you and I came back for doesn’t work for me anymore. Not at present, anyway. There’s another – called WordPress – that demands my attention. She takes up much of what little time I have available and she’s able to satisfy me faster than you. But I shan’t go down this road. I shan’t compare the two of you for that would be demeaning. I can only say that she lets me publish my thoughts and ideas, but more importantly, makes me make them complete and coherent first. Something I seldom did with you. Perhaps this new way of love is beyond your comprehension. I, on the other hand, am addicted. It’s too difficult to stop feeling the pleasure of having my thoughts and ideas out in the world, receiving recognition and feedback. It’s too difficult to deny the ecstasy of being liked and read. I know you think I’m a man-whore, who shares every part of his literary self with the world and likes it. Maybe I am. But I can promise you one thing, what you and I had will forever remain fondly between us especially since you carry as many embarrassing details as you do brilliant ones. So in the end, you still have a spell on me. And who knows, I just might come back to you, if not for the love then for the shame.