journal · prose


One day is much like another. Seconds melt into minutes and minutes bleed into hours; I would lose track of time entirely, if I had nowhere to be. And If I had nowhere to be, I would be lost. So I keep the time, because I must, haphazardly marking the hours as they pass and assessing how well I have distracted myself within them. And although everyday I remind myself  of the words they spoke, and I although know, I know that I don’t need someone else to make me smile, and I don’t need them to make me happy, and I don’t need them to make me feel beautiful, and I am strong enough to be alone… it still hurts. Because I had someone who made me smile, and I had someone who made me happy, and I had someone who made me feel beautiful, and it was so, so much more than being alone. It hurts, not because I needed someone to give me those things, but because at last, I had someone I could share them with. There was color in the world and the possibilities began and ended at our behest, and for the first time in my life, I felt truly alive. And now there is only me, with the possibility that you might return slowly disintegrating with the passing of each day. And when I smile, there is no one here to smile back. When I feel happy, there is no one here to share my happiness with. And when I am looking my most beautiful, I realize that there is no one else here to look beautiful for. And in those moments, my heart misses you with a force which tears at me from all angles and sides until I am scourged of any other feeling, and at last, exhausted with the effort of both ignoring and enduring my emotions, I tumble into bed. And then it all begins again.


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