Something is dying. What is getting born?
Did something die long ago, and did I simply not recognize it?
Was the thing that died real? I think it was the realest thing that ever happened to me, but was it real? Some say not.
There is something I don’t want to die and don’t want to lose connection with. It may not be my choice and as I say, this may have already happened, I may be the last to know.
I do not want the truth to be as empty as it seems now — and I don’t think it is, actually. I also don’t want it to be past.
Something a fortuneteller said to me, though, was: “Stop knocking on doors and stop slumming. Raise your sights to where ‘things can be served on trays’.”
What do I gain by allowing myself to be overburdened with service to others? Evasion of self, or of my own value, surely.
Axé.
coldhearted scientist وداد 
Also: part of my funk has to do with having stood up for myself, again. There is more to say on this.
Shedding this so-called activist role.
The issue in what I am doing is lack of mutuality, long-standing. Each person sees in the other(s) a path to something they want. They like each other too, but primarily they symbolize things to each other and are trying to get those things out of each other. This is the problem. I was in a romance once that was like that.