a sad story with no point. or is there? there really must not be or this would never happen again. i am feeling particularly sad tonight. my house is slowly becoming something to be admired once more, so it can't be that. my musician has left town again, but i know i will see him again, so it isn't that. the worst part about writing is when you can't think of what the next sentence will be. i am currently having a great deal of difficulty with my novel. nothing is happening. anastasia is so empty right now that i cannot even begin to bring her out of her misery. and like a spouse whose mood rubs off on you, hers is on me. and the stupidest part is that i created all of it. i made her empty and i don't know how to fill her.
she is in love with a man who is completely incapable of returning the degree of love which she gives him. fair enough. so leave him anastasia. but she can't. not yet anyways. she is the kind of woman who gives it everything she has, then more before giving up on anyone or anything. i admire her for that. i am her contrast in that way. i give up as soon as it gets hard. at this moment i don't know which is better. i would love to take her away. buy her a plane ticket to paris so she can fall in love with a tall, dark and handsome stranger. at least for a weekend. but no. she will stay. and she will be sad. and i will be sad with her.
maybe painting my wall purple will change my mood. and hers....
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