There is always a hesitancy to return to something so readily available, stable in my clutter of instability. But I promised myself I would do better. Write more. And concentrate on what I want rather than what wants me. Still I feel myself chipping away at the requests of my friends, and loosening my grip on the railing I rely on to steady myself.

Maybe I need this: unsubtle hint of insanity, hidden under the premise of love (Is it enough?). Or should I draw the line? I’ve tugged, mercilessly, at this thread that used to be something beautiful, and with it I’ve reeled in the deepest of emotions in the strangest tides, so as I reach the end I have to wonder:

Is something different just because it has come apart?