We have too much history. We know each other too well, or at least – I know you too well. There’s too much baggage to really see you in a new way, and that’s sorta what I’d have to be able to do for this to work.
It’s like. I feel like *I’ve* grown and… you’ve kinda. Festered. And I mean that in the nicest way possible.
Maybe if I could afford to run away with you, try again in a new place, with nothing to distract me. You know. From all the baggage that is you.
I’m not even saying it can’t work. I’m saying, I don’t want to? That. (I don’t want to.) I want excitement and possibilities and newness. I want a blank page.
I’m sorry, you beautiful, hideous work-in-progress with far too many thousands of words to be enticing. And you, my silly White Whale who’s been “done” three times and now I can think of another way to write you. I’m most sorry to you, string of vignettes that will one day be beautiful and animated…if only I had any graphic ability, maybe we could be happy together, today. For now, leave me alone. Seriously, get out. It’s not me. It’s you.