the way we were

can't do it. can't let go, can't get out. how much longer is this going to take? she said, two years; and she was as old as i am now. i can't do this for two years - i have not even the requisite anger to see me through. i don't feel anything i can name: not old, or tired, or lonely, or miserable, or angry. i feel only that i need to talk to him. it is the sum total of how i feel. why am i so single-minded about it? why can't i just do what is sensible and healthy and satisfying to the ego? because i have none.
sigh, oh.