Winter was in its dying throes when I finally had enough of the malaise and decided the best way to live was just to do just that, live. I couldn't get Sofi out of my mind. I was eating myself alive with jealousy, worry and more than anything sadness. I had never been so close to someone only to have them slip away with absolutely no hope. Writing? Oh man, I hadn't written a thing since I saw her last. Staring at empty pages, a word here and there but no great ideas, metaphors or even traces of memory came forward. That too seemed hopeless. One thing I had figured out though was there was no way I could work the god-damned forty plus hours a week making the wages I did and ever have any sort of a life. That I knew. That was the beginning, the beginning of the end. Months before I had come to the conclusion that existing lent itself quite nicely to that sort of regimen, not living, and all great writers had lived. At least that's what I thought.
