a rien en particulier

I sense a foreboding storm gathering in the future. A storm - a maelstrom of emotions stirring up from the deepest recesses of my soul. I fear that this stupidity will once again surface and threaten to destroy all I have worked for these seven months. It's over, and I don't want to go back for the fear of rejection but I tell myself that this case is different. I have spread the idea that I am impervious to that mushiness they call love in it's corrupted forms, but hey, I'm a human being. Now I am faced with the shameful possibility of eating my words I spat so forcefully from my mouth.

Shit. The past, I hope not, will repeat itself.