One, two weeks ago, I would’ve known. I would’ve sat in front of the PC and pounded words away without an iota of regard for time. These thoughts would’ve stopped haunting me now. I would’ve been less quiet, less restless, less cautious.

Now you tell me to write again. How am I supposed to do that now?

You miss my words, you say. You need to know me again, know the person behind the tear-blurred pages of the Moleskine you probed while I was busy worrying about you. You say, this time, you want to read a happier, more content me. And you want to be the person responsible for that change.

You don’t understand, do you? You cannot be.

So, now, tell me what to write. Tell me which words to avoid, which ideas to hold back, which thoughts not to entertain. Tell me when to begin and when to stop. Tell me exactly how premeditated you want my words to be. Tell me, please, tell me.

Because, right now, I really don’t know.