Dry.

You probably don't read this anymore.

Things are different now, yet I sometimes have to act like it's all okay. Perhaps it is - at least I've been trying to convince myself - and everything is just another manifestation of the selfishness and insecurity from within.

But this silence kills me. Not knowing how things will be like, throwing myself to the currents of 'fate', not having a grasp of anything at all. And the reaction I am told to take on, I greatly fear, is a resignation to fate that you often subscribe to - perhaps nurtured (ironically) by the circumstances over the entire existence of this unspoken bond. Perhaps I molded it as such - a painful shot in my toe, that I sometimes wish where my head.

It still exists, like the earth I stand on, but now just a surface. The value in it gone, eroded by the winds of time, exposing dryness, barrenness, and unfortunately lifelessness - even a strong jolt can do nothing.

Yet at the end, I stand here on this land, with nowhere to turn to, confident that there is no greener anywhere, if any green at all. This was perhaps my last ever chance - maybe fate, again, has brought me here. If it were a test, let it end. If it were a prank, end it.

I know I can find no better, and only because of that I fear losing.