Why do people feel the need to write about their emotions? To arouse the interest of their readership? Self obsession? Catharsis? To work out where and what the fuck they are?

I've been writing about my emotions all night, letters to my muse, addressing our demise as an idea. I edited and re-edited and the prose began resolving complicated feelings and conflicting thoughts into some kind of rational schema, a pithy but dramatic narrative. Words to send out selfishly into the world, as much to try to forget as reach out, like a spell cast to try and make things feel better.

But really the words bear little resemblance to the messy shared experience they're trying to fathom any more, and maybe they never have. The more the prose gained its own internal logic and elegance, the more different a version of the truth it became. Violent physical sensations sublimated into words, until I was calm as i finished. I'm only crying now because I realise that here somewhere lies the crux of our demise.

---------
What I should have done is write him about his bloody ice cream. That cold sticky sugary goo he loves, that seems to permeate people's relationships like some sickly sweet emblem of fun and pleasure. Well ice cream eating has been closely intertwined with the sorry end of several of mine and I never eat fucking Ben & Jerry's any more. And now here we are again... another half pot left in my freezer. I'd like him to come round and finish it so I don't have to perform the pathetic ritual of throwing it in the bin.