The old that is weak shall wither...

When he said goodbye, he didn't really mean it. It was just something that felt right in that moment in time. Something that made him feel like he was taking a step forward - towards something new, something better. Now as he sits here, being enveloped by his inherent loneliness, he tries to pick up the pen, and continue where he left off. But the pen doesn't move, and a sharp pain flashes through his brain. "What the fuck?" He whispers to himself, as he realises that his past addictions might have taken a greater toll than he thought. Something is wrong. It's as if a part of his brain is no longer there. That one special piece that allowed him to shape thoughts into words, words into paragraphs, and paragraphs into stories - ones that might have only made sense to him, but made sense nonetheless. Something is wrong. Something significant.