7Y+1D

The time that has passed since I have last written should tell you just how much you matter to me now.  Three years, five months, and twelve days since the last time I had any inclination to write. And really, had I not seen a flashback post on Facebook this morning, I would have not remembered it was seven years and one day ago.  I do not know why I am even writing.  Part of me wants to rub in how much my life has improved, the other sees it as being pointless.

Amusingly, not that you would care, I was thinking about Catcher in the Rye the other day.  I dare say you had great insight when you gave me a copy (which I still have... I have this thing about destroying books. As much as I should have with the rest of your shit, I did not simply because it is a book.) as much of it is as relevant today as it was then.  Most poignantly, this:

That's the whole trouble. You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write "Fuck you" right under your nose. I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it'll say "Holden Caulfield" on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it'll say "Fuck you." I'm positive, in fact.

Why so poignant?  It summarizes our relationship.

Anyway...

So yeah, just how much you matter to me now?

Not one iota.

Sort of.  If you truly did not matter, I would not have bothered writing this, I suppose, and certainly not as much as I have.  Will I write again? I sure hope not.  I am sure there are a myriad of other things I could be doing other than expending precious energy on you.