Writing isn’t an act of love. Writing isn’t loving. Writing isn’t love. Remind yourself that when you profess your love for the girl you’ll never have because you spent time writing rather than living. Because you were too analytical of the world to take part in it. Writing isn’t a safe place. It isn’t a home. Writing isn’t safe. Because you reflect, you remember how you let her down. You remember how you broke your own heart. All because of writing. It translated to how you lived. You didn’t live to write. You wrote to live. And all your energies were moved into that space. Instead of her. That’s how you lost her. And will you ever get her back? Maybe you shouldn’t worry about that. Maybe you shouldn’t write about that. Maybe. Just maybe. You should live life. And not analyze it.