Dearest —–

You must have seen it coming. My eyes have been wondering to other books on the shelf. I  have gingerly caress their spines as yours sat collecting dust.

And then there were those occasions when I did pick you up. After waiting months and months to see you, I sighed, enthralled perhaps for a minute or two, but quickly the feeling vanished and I was left, forcing myself to keep going, hoping inspiration would hit us again.

It didn’t.

I furrowed my head at your plot twists. What once seemed ingenious now became convoluted and redundant. As more and more seemingly filler characters came into the picture, as your story become self-aggrandizing and obese, as your story veered off into tangent after tangent in an obvious allegory to Christ which for some reason almost every dystopian series feels it must follow, I sat and wondered, were you the same series I fell in love with?

Maybe it was the months and months I waited for you. Reading about you. Dreaming about what would lie in your undiscovered pages. My mind put you up on a pedestal that only Kurt Vonnegut and my other masters of literature could fill.

Or maybe it’s me.

It been over a year since I read  your last chapter, caressed your pages lovingly, let your word bleed into my reality. A lot can happen in a year, perhaps we have just grown apart.