I took a bit of time to count the months from my last post to this one. Considered the days, wondered at the hours between them. I'm not sure why I had suddenly stopped maintaining this journal - I suppose I did not need it for one, but another part of me might have just not wanted to record the details of my life, refusing, perhaps, to face what was happening.

Some time ago, my fiance left me, a close friend died, and I was told by a doctor that I was very ill.

A laugh suddenly finds itself trapped in my throat, an ironic gesture from a dying man! but, then again, we all die - few of us really live.

Regardless, I've spent some time on my own in order to consider what was happening to me. I shouldn't be too surprised, when I put some distance between myself and my problems. I'm a smoker, and I'm a drinker. My youthful years were wasted with ill-conceived poisons and unsavory pursuits. To know that I will die young is less a burden than it is simply a reassurance. Of course, I still have yet to accept my demise. Science marches swiftly onward, and combined with the medicinal gains we have accomplished in the last ten years, I am led to believe that I shall live long enough to at least see my children grow to become adults.

Though I admit, I am somewhat regretful of knowing that I shall not be that cool old grandfather.

Anyway, I've run from my problems long enough. My fiance will not come back to me, will not speak to me. And though I refuse to move on, but I will not blame her for her choices. I had always thought that I was blessed to have so early known the person that I would happily spend the rest of my life with, and continue to consider myself so blessed. I'll never regret my decision to love her, I'll never claim that there was something else I could have done. My hands, once full with hers and happy to have found their place, now type slowly upon these keys and realize that happiness should find its home in worthier hands.

As for my friend, I toast you: you were the rock that I could lean on, the comrade who knew what it meant to fight against everything. I wish that I could have seen you but one last time, but that is a wish that could never be granted.

Finally, concerning this journal. I shall continue writing in it as something therapeutic. Though I find myself weaker, more bitter, and far less pleasant than the man who began it, it is only fair to myself to record my thoughts for the me of tomorrow.