"Don't let the stars run down."

Isaac Asimov.

Have I let my stars run down? Today is the eighth anniversary of the day that inspired me to write my first two novels. That day has filled many of my nights with inexplicable tears. That day gave me a cause, a cause to which I swore I would give me life. That day tore me apart and put me back together in its own image. That day was the Mark Adams to my Ralph Myers. I grieved. I hallucinated in novel form. I played both the prettiest trills and saddest elegies. I said I would never forget--could never forget.

And yet, today, I almost forgot. I was awake for two hours before I suddenly sat bolt straight with the knowledge of the date. I almost forgot. And I almost didn't care. Correction: I really didn't care.

I don't know if I do, now. I don't know if I care more or less than I can say. My priorities have expanded so much in the past year. I don't know how or why. I just know that I have moved back to square one, where I wonder if I can seriously live in this country for the rest of my life. My once beloved has been raped, and not by Henry Erikson. It's too hideous to watch. Especially when I see that I don't love her. I don't know if I ever really did. Was it infatuation?

Oh, these metaphors are in bad taste. My point is that I have no desire to write about Henry Erikson anymore. I have no desire to wear the bracelet I made in eighth grade. I desire now to cry more over what I don't feel than what I do. The black bile is fading away. I'm all phlegm--all logic. I'm sitting here telling myself that it's enough when it very clearly isn't. I've had this conversation before. I'll have it again. I won't ever find an answer that I like. That won't stop me searching.

But today, there is one singular question on my mind. I'll ask it again:

If I've let my stars run down, is there any way to reverse entropy?