I struggle to bring words to the page, but indolence halts my thoughts. A health book? Me? Write a health book? I wonder how I even agreed with it in the first place. Sucks. Big time.

I can't write! My mind is filled wtih thoughts of him and my contact lenses are drying up. I try to chant Julia Cameron's words like a mantra. Nevermind if the things you write don't make sense. You'd be surprised what gems you will find by just writing random thoughts. "He" told me Butch Dalisay said the same. Hey, if these great writers tell me to write nonstop, then I will write. Yes, even if they don't matter to anyone. Even if what it is is a whole jumble of thoughts and words reflecting how disorganized my mind is. Agh! What am I supposed to do? I have a deadline and all I have to show is ONE SENTENCE. There goes my career and my reputation. I should try to be more disciplined and professional. Passion does not bring food to the table. Neither does it pay my bills. I cannot blame not writing on the artist's temperament forever.
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He has a sorry look on his face; eyes droopy, forehead crinkled, head slightly bent down. His eyes tried to communicate with mine. But I dodge them. No. Not this time. I have to leave some respect for myself and not give in to his usual apologies. Half thankful for the noise around us (the band's terrible), half for the little candle that masks whatever facial expression I projected as he spoke, I raise an eyebrow at him. Did he see it? He looks so pathetic. At the back of my mind, I laugh at how I used to throw myself at his feet. How his presence made me feel alive and needed and wanting for more. Do I need him now? I think not. What he is now is not who I fell in love with before.

I see him now with disgust. I cringe at this sorry excuse for a person sitting in front of me, trying to make me stay. I want to laugh. I want to cry. I don't know why.

Love really has a sense of humor. And him, with his sorry face, sorry excuses and sorry life, does not deserve me. Me and him? It angers me.
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Do I think it? Or do I will it? Do I endure? Questions. Questions. I have yet to find out answers to my eternally repeating questions. I should get back to work.