It's not me, it's you.
I find that I cannot be around you any more. I do not want to see you. In fact, you bring me down in rather a massive way and I think it best that we avoid each other for a while. Obviously, we'll be friends again someday - such is your ever present way. For now though, I need to get away from you.
I need space and time to redraw my imaginative boundaries. I need to take my mind out and away and wash it down. I need to take a scalpel and remove the rot and there sure is a lot of rot. I need to cauterise the wounds. Words, you know, more wounding than other people's happiness.
Maybe I'll come back cleaned out and painted up. Maybe I'll come back better. Maybe I'll come back to a different you. By then, I suppose, you will be different after all. Ever-changing happy to my stagnant un. Maybe that'll change too.
I'd like not to come back at all. To make a break and make it final. I find it easier and often better to burn bridges. If nothing else they make a lovely blaze. I think, however, I shall be back. My judgement is out on this one. Out of the room, out of the state, out of my mind.
Again, I have left on a melancholy note. I'm good at that. That and making a problem of myself. I am a problem, aren't I? Best not to let me forget that.