I´ve tried and tried and tried. And hoped it would stop. It didn´t. Now writing with a pen on paper is everything I can think of and I know it will be my downfall. It doesn´t matter what I´ll receive in return. Doesn´t change the fact that I can´t stop. It´s consuming. I wonder, and still wonder, how you did it. As if forgetting me was the easiest thing to do. As if I have never existed in this world. Your world. Somewhere I have never belonged to.And I ask myself: Is this reality? Is this the end.