or not, really. Over the last couple of years, time has lost a lot of its meaning. I mean, I only go outside a few hours a week. I keep blackout curtains on my windows. I sleep just whenever. Sometimes for two or three hours, sometimes for ten or twelve. I wake up disoriented, not knowing if it’s daytime or night. There’s one daily ritual I have; I write to my Jessica every single day. Started a week after it happened, just a couple pages a day to tell her how much I love her and miss her, and I haven’t skipped one since. Scared to miss a day, really. I get anxious about it. Sometimes I’ll think to myself “oh, I should get back to that thing I was doing a bit ago” only to realize that “a bit ago” was more like three days ago. I’d hate myself if that happened with these letters. Because the letters mean we’re still together. As long as I keep writing to her, keep communicating, then we’re still a couple. It’s the ultimate long distance relationship, and we’re just waiting ‘til we get to see each other again. But if I ever stopped... Most of the time, it’s like I’m in this void. Like my life passed normally, right up until the really bad day, and then time just kinda turned weird. Next week feels as far away as next decade and two years ago has more resonance than two weeks ago. Sometimes I notice it though. I mark the time with notebooks full of letters. She died nine notebooks ago. That can’t be right. Surely she’s only been gone for a few pages. The present is a foggy confusing mess. The future, other than filling me with a vague sense of dread, is beyond my ability to even contemplate. The past is crystal fucking clear, and so beautiful to me now that my inability to touch it brings me to tears.