When did it become too much, and I couldn’t handle it anymore? Could I suffer too much? Could I love you too much? Where was the line between obsession and absurdity? Was it when I closed the door but hid in the closet, waiting to hear the key unlock what I had left open? Was it when I hung up the phone, shouting, and then stared at the black screen for hours? Was it when I wrote the last letter and checked my mailbox every single day for another response?

I formed attachments with people who entered my life, with whom I shared the moments between sunrise and dawn. I kept those memories etched in the night sky, and with every breath, I remembered how much I cherished living that life. I accumulated moments that made it impossible to walk to the corner store without recalling at least one moment. My dreams merged seamlessly with reality as if every experience was a page ripped from a fairy tale, neither possible to stay in nor return to without the magic within. I amassed memories, storing them in a piggy bank, knowing that one day everything would be shattered by the force of a hammer, but there were no interest rates, and I didn’t go into debt with them. What a sweet lie it was!

I existed in a euphoric state, forgetting the feeling of replacing air with the viscosity of salty tears that drained the depths of my soul, leaving it parched, in drought for countless seasons. I held onto the flowers that pierced my skin with their thorns until the pain became unbearable, and then I let them go. I allowed them to soar above the highest realms, like air balloons carrying my wishes and hopes. I set them free, liberated them, and bidden them a final farewell.

“If we can just let go and trust that things will work out the way they’re supposed to, without trying to control the outcome, then we can begin to enjoy the moment more fully. The joy of the freedom it brings becomes more pleasurable than the experience itself.”

― Goldie Hawn

I went around the empty space left in my soul, circling the hollow tree, afraid of what I felt inside. The echoes I heard from within were scary and empty, without a bottom. I was afraid to reflect my fears in the shadow that didn’t provide any answers, just darkness and emptiness, leaving me without hope. I was filled with anger and despair, dragging my feet as I tried to escape from what I had created with love and passion.

Left alone, everything was rotting, eating away at my insides, as the feeling of emptiness grew without boundaries. Like a kettle on hot stones in a fire, I felt that everything would explode if I didn’t release and leave it all behind before it destroyed me. But when was the time to let go of love and loss? Was it after the first love or when I believed it was the last? What calibrated my soul, balancing too much anger and too much passion? I screamed and shed rivers of tears, only to realize that nothing changed what had been deeply imprinted on my skin, stronger than any ink, deeper than any scar.

Time heals everything, but who wants to wait for that? What did I do in the meantime, when life was just a shadow of what it used to be and tomorrow was nothing but a lie I would probably never reach? From the moment I left behind my investments to the moment I healed my soul, where did I exist? What was that place called? It must have been a void in space where I became numb and lost my senses, relying on vital supplies in bags of glucose and artificial light filled with vitamin D. I stayed in a safe space where there were no pictures to recall the moments, no songs to remind me of what I loved the most, and no scent of cedarwood to bring back the hours spent together in the rose garden.

“The anger welled inside me, with nowhere to go. I could feel it eating away at me. I knew if I didn’t find a way to release it, it would destroy me.”

― Kami Garcia and Margaret Stohl

I never healed and forgot; I only lied and hid my true feelings at the bottom of my soul, alongside other lost and found moments. I added layers of emotions until they metamorphosed into hard stones, weighing heavily in my stomach, too painful to release. I learned to live with them, circling around the hole left in my heart, cautious and aware of the thin line before I could fall in again.

I retrieved the dusty luggage of memories from under the bed, searching for pictures or anything that could evoke the good times. I lived with illusions, attempting to replace desires over time and searching for the spark that once kept me awake, but nothing could restore what had been erased with a Ctrl+Alt+Delete. I clung to hope like a broken umbrella in the midst of a storm, knowing it was not helping, yet still holding onto longing. I refused to let go, keeping my eyes closed to other possibilities because my heart felt more than my mind could comprehend.

I never reached an ending because an ending would not release what was lost; instead, it would amplify the magnitude of my loss. I released bags of tears when I couldn’t ascend any higher, like a hot air balloon that needed to liberate some weight to move forward.

“How many beginnings were held at bay because we refused to let an ending be an ending?”

― Craig D. Lounsbrough

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