journal · letter · prose


I am overwhelmed by the ferocity of life, by moments come, gone, and forgotten until they burst into my mind like stars. I am blinded by their brilliance; visions of us, as all of what we were, where we’ve been, the images so real that every emotion is just as poignant as they were within each moment, and the tears fall and fall and fall… nothing else in my life has ever felt so real and beautiful and achingly raw. How we started learning every inch of each other inside and out, without trying and without meaning to, slow and fast all at once. You used to text me every morning and want me everyday, and we were so excited, so happy for the mutual company. For a relief from the immeasurable loneliness of life. There was singing and laughter and passion, always passion. That elusive creature was far more present than I ever fully realized until it was no longer there, and I wonder, what killed it? And was it me? Was it my words or my actions, borne out of fear and insecurity? Or was it something you never felt that strongly to begin with? And why does passion die? What gives it life and how do we find it again? Do we even want to? And then I wonder how you are and if you have thought of me at all. I miss you with every breath, and all things seem to serve no other purpose except to remind me of this one simple fact. And my mind is unable to reconcile with my soul how something so honest and genuine can be discarded so easily. Unless I was the only one who felt that it was true. I simply cannot believe that.


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