What to Write, What to Write...hmm?

Should one delve into the past exclusively -- should one deal only with the vagaries and trends of now -- should one bear one's soul in a confessional of emotional blather -- or should one write about what one can't yet write about?

All this is grist for the mill. All this conjecture is pathos set to an alarming tune.
All this is wonderment at what is most deeply troubling within.  Is writing the answer to despair, or the antidote for it? Does the writing trigger the end -- or is it a catalyst for a newly revised future? Who can possibly say. 

At present life is stable but futureless.  I have removed myself from a friendship that was moving in reverse, and stagnating in the present.  Poor me.  Poor her.
I have stood moot in another relationship that was mutually self-destructive, and thereby halted the fear, if not the pain, of a future encounter.  I love...others. But with a detached quality of objectivity -- that creates a glass cover sandwiching the specimen of friendship itself. There is no future in any of this. It cannot be as it was; it will not become what I hoped it would; it may not grow past what was there before. It is the trap of time, and space, and self.