December 5, 2006
I actually had to make myself sit down and write. I don't know why, but I don't want to. I don't feel like doing anything as a matter of fact. I have two parchments in my desk, to Owls I started to write I don't know how long and yet, I can't seem to get past Dear Oliver or Dear Lisa. The parchments mock me, I know, and Hedwig is not that fond of me right now. I think she is bored, yet she refuses to go and visit Hermione without an Owl.
I have a job and haven't told anyone yet, again, that would mean writing or ringing and I just, I can't. It's not that I don't have anything to say, it's that I can't say to whom I want to. I keep writing to him, in my mind, time and time again. I can't stop thinking of things I'd say to him, of things I want him to know, of things left unsaid, and it's driving me mad, because, how can I get all of it out? I can't, I know that.
It's funny, but I can't stop thinking about him, now even more than when I was in London and I thought that I could drop by or ring him, at least, but it was never my right, just something I took. It goes to show you can't really run away from your problems. I've put physical distance between us -I should rethink that, considering the wanker Apparated all the way from London to Spain- but that's not enough. Will this ever get better? Wasn't it supposed to be better already? I want to think it is, that I'm healing and that I'll get over it, after all it's obvious that whatever morbid attraction he felt for me is gone and that should be enough for me, to keep going, to keep surviving, just like I've always done. The fact that I'm asking myself for the first time in my life if it's worth it, if keeping on surviving is really what I want to do, should mean nothing. It is nothing, and so am I.
I should write to him. I think I may do just that.