I miss missing him. Which is so stupid. I guess there’s no more low level serotonin boost from thinking about him or missing him. It used to make my day. Used to make me spin. Used to be the thing that I wanted to do most: think about him. And it’s strange, because now when I think about him – I just feel deflated. Sad, really, because that once great source of joy and love is now…nothing. I want to feel something. I want to want him, to crave, to miss, to be willing to blow up everything in my life just to be close to him. But now? Nah. Which makes me mad, because weren’t we supposed to be in love forever? But, honestly, I’m not even mad enough to do something about it. Actually, I’m not even mad. But I want to be mad. Because being mad is more fun than being indifferent. Sure, I still think about him from time to time – of course I do, because I’m writing about him. But I think about him less and less. I’m not sure what else it is that I think about these days – the chaos and the catastrophe of being close to him consumed me. Almost destroyed me. Being that close to destruction was thrilling. Now – I am whole without him, and it is also kinda boring. I have healed from the old wounds, and in its place, I have health. I’m not sure if I want health. I don’t want him, that’s for sure. I want some new kind of disease to make me sick and hurting. I want to obsess, because without obsession I am simply bored.