i don’t have anything to say to you. it’s the same. it’s always the same, and you know that, which is why you only ask a couple more questions before signing off, telling me to have a good rest of my day.
"thanks."
i couldn’t tell you what it is even if i wanted to. there’s nothing to tell you.
i keep repeating to myself there’s no point in expecting you to understand -- sometimes angry, sometimes weary, and yet always with that edge of anxious disbelief; not really, though, right? it’s not actually impossible for another human being to understand what it is i’m trying to say, i’m not actually an alien in human skin, i just feel uncannily close to one. this will be the time i manage to roll the boulder up over the summit.
there’s simply nothing there for me to pour into the tip of my pen. i used to love writing -- right? didn’t i? i must have, according to the feverish scrawl painted across the insides of cheap spiral-bound notebooks now gathering dust in my closet, but it’s been so long since i had that feeling, that glow in my chest, that i wonder sometimes if it had ever been there at all.
i think, maybe, i’ve given up.
so no, i don’t expect you to understand. and if i’m being honest i don’t think you should.