Life sucks and then you die. I hate that I never feel like I'm enough. I hate that I can't take a compliment. I hate waking up. I hate feeling useless. I hate how emotional I am over everything. I hate how callous I am. I hate feeling alone.

After all this time I had a terrible hope you'd be there for me. Funny how just one line of text can affect my life so bad. I need to thank you, though. Dreams of you got me through hell. You have taught me so much about who I am and how I'm not good enough. Every day when I hit the gym I'm tearing down and breaking who I was. Why? Because who I am hates who I've been and who I was, I can never be again. I wish you the best in life, because you deserve it. Goodbye Mashiara.

Donec rursus convenerimus. 

Looking back through these group pictures, I never recognize myself. That face isn't mine. I've changed so much, inside and out. I want to keep these changes, because I feel they're pretty positive. I've found confidence where I didn't know I had any, but I had to drop down to where I felt totally lost to find it. I now have the drive and ambition to finally move forward and do something with myself. It feels good. Inside I'm still a mess, but every day I get out there and improve myself just a little bit. Hopefully it will be enough. Hopefully *I* will be enough.

I stand, and...if even for but a moment, I feel as if I'm waiting for something. For a long time coming I can't identify what it is, but even that fact alone is unsurprising--it's dark, it's stormy, and I'm rendered incapable of making sense of anything in an environment like this. In my thoughts there's a swirling rain, in my thoughts there's a dark and musky night...in my thoughts, there's you.

Even when I think I've escaped these kinds of thoughts--this feeling of waiting, and of longing--I'm haunted by the remnants of the destruction we created together. Every night, after night, a memory plays out to me. It's vivid, it's real, like it was only yesterday. A memory of standing in the cold, swirling rain of the past; a memory of the drops beating down on the leaves of the oak tree, the shafts of the roof. The water slips down inbetween the cracks, of a glass door I stand outside of; when I press my hand to it, it trickles down inbetween my fingers, the chill running off the back of my hand.

My ragged clothes are drenched, pressed up against my body--my thick hair, too, stuck to my forehead. I have little energy left in this moment, but still, through tired eyes I peer through the cracked glass, to see you inside. Your back is to me, but you sit quietly, wrapped up in a thin blanket watching the fireplace--it's burnt out now, the wood blackened from the pouring through the chimney; there is nothing to see, yet still, it's as if you remain unaware of my existence.

I can't call out, because I have no voice--can't open the door, when the locks protect the cold hard shell like castle walls. My only purpose for being here, my only reason to exist in this state, is to realize and to accept the harsh truth, the reality of the storm among us.

I lower my head like a dog who was just scolded, thoughts swirling like the rain. What was I to expect, after all? My hand is still pressed to the glass--the drops that slip down are only our own blood, together, shattered and mixed together so that we no longer know whose pain is whose. The way the drops never cease to keep beating down makes me feel like a murderer--the way they can stay beaded together, clutching tight to the very moments they hit the cold ground, makes me feel so terribly alone.

I remember a time, so vivid and lively, when we were beaded together, holding on tight through the ups and the downs on life. Until we hit the ground, each fell into an abyss, each bounced off of each other--and now, we are only blood, only pain, the murderers of the murder we are. It's a painful truth to realize, a painful fact to bear.

And even now--I'm somehow here, at least, standing, breathing, without you by my side. You are here--yes, but this isn't like before. I feel weak, knowing that there's no time to change what has been done, knowing that nothing will ever be the same. This is how things have to be, now--with us far apart, like parallel lines who see each other yet never meet--or even any other pair, who cross once, in a beautiful and glorious moment, and venture off from that moment forever. It is the heartbreaking truth that I am learning to accept, ever so painfully, agonizingly slowly.

That is it--that is all this is about. That slow, dull pain, creeping through my body. The remnants of the past, the destruction we created, the loneliness despite us not alone. We were together and now we are not, and that is simply that.

I stand, and by a fleeting moment, I'm waiting for something. I'm waiting for the painful, hard, and unchangeable truth to sink into my thoughts, and then, into my heart.

It is not that I am alone--I'm not. There you are, on the other side of the cracked glass, there you are. It's not being alone that causes a pain of this extent. No, it is that solid, unbearable truth that changes everything.

That even now, somehow, I am without you.

It is strange how I find myself thinking of you at the oddest of times. Whether it be a flower or gunfire, you're there in my heart. I think of the laughs we've shared, the sweet embraces, the stolen kisses. Would you like that flower? I bet you would be adorable thinking about how that thing goes together. What kind of comments would you have about the people we're watching?

    Inevitably it all turns to the other questions. Was I just some fling? Do you even think of me? Do you even care anymore? Feels like you don't, and that hurts me more than a bullet ever will.

    As sweet as life was before, it is as painful now. Inside me there are cold, quiet things huddled in the dark that want to scream but can only whisper.

I inhale you in small doses and adore you like the roses, but you're bad for me.

What is emotion? Why do we have it? What possible benefit does it offer us? The Flame and the Void would be a balm to existence, yet they elude me. I'm tired of feeling. I just want to feel nothing.

In all honesty, I feel way less stressed in this warzone than I did back in the States. Out here I don't worry about bills. I don't worry about finding a date. I don't worry about what people think of me. I don't worry about hardly anything. There can be explosions nearby and I only care because I'll be inconvenienced to go and put on my kit. Gunfire is commonplace, more easily ignored than the sound of street racers.

Nothing has any meaning.

My biggest source of stress and pain is the fact that I'm trying to hold on to a memory. I should just let it die.

I hurt myself far more than you hurt me.

A letter

Dear Girl Who Walked Away,

It's not like you weren't aware of what you were getting yourself into. He told you he was nice. He trusted easily and gave you all he could when he could.

The nice guy believes in doing things right. He was there when you needed him to be, and he went out of his way to make sure you knew just how much you could mean to someone.

We live in a generation where we all have to wear masks and play parts to make it through the battlefield of dating in the 21st century. There is no such thing as giving it your all.

We like quotes on Facebook and post things on Instagram stating we want the masochist one day and the romantic the next. We play these games where being available can only happen sometimes, and playing hard-to-get must be our number one priority. Why?

I thought the ultimate goal was to eventually settle down. I mean, what is the point of dating if you have no desire for it to go anywhere? If a one-night stand is what you're looking for, leave the good guys alone and toy within the levels you lay down.

Save yourself time and energy because the good guy isn't going to make it easy to just walk away. The good guy cares, so he'll get his explanation from you even though he knows it'll be a load of bull.

Every girl says she likes the asshole because he's the challenge — the one she must break, train and force to be more than just a douchebag. Have you ever thought, however, maybe you were the girl in need of learning what it means to actually feel again?

You went through something, like we all do, and because of it you changed. It's normal and heartbreak happens, but the next assh*le didn't fix what the first one did; he kept it the same or made it worse. His priority was not you and couldn't be you. So now you're bitter and closed off from anything remotely more satisfying than a one-night stand.

I won't deny that the asshole is fun or that a good time isn't promised with him, but when it's all said and done, is it ever more than just a good time? Probably not.

In fact, the asshole has a charm about him; it's the charm you justify your pursuit with. You say, “There's just something about him.” However, it’s probably the same quality that ended up hurting you in the past.

So you tried to push the nice guy away. When he wouldn't go away, you pushed harder. Still, he didn't give up and every time you pushed harder, he pulled you in even more.

He ignored your fears and forced you to grow; he fought for your passions when you were too busy writing them off. He forgot your wants and focused on everything you needed. Then you walked away because he was too nice.

He gave you too much of everything you wanted, and life got too easy. You wanted conflict and hardship as if everything else in life did not promise you an endless journey of just that. This is where you failed.

The nice guy has been hurt, too, he just chose to stay nice. He learned that different people were going to provide him different things in life. The nice guy also chose not to let any of it change who he was.

So, he let you walk away and he called it a day. Everyone always says there are plenty of fish in the sea, and he let you go knowing this, even though it hurt.

What you don't know is that someone else is out there, and she won't be as foolish you. When you realize all you really want is the nice guy who cares about you too much, it's going to be too late. Some other girl will be able to see how great he is, and she won’t waste a minute.

So you lost your Ted Mosby and, I promise, to him you were Robin. The nice guys are there to give you a break, a light to something more than the games we identify our generation with.

He may have loved you too soon and it was too crazy and too much, but guys like Mosby don't happen every day; they happen never. He got you the blue French horn, and he made you feel love when love was no longer a part of your vocabulary. You were now saying “I love you” again and remembering what it felt like.

He was the guy you were supposed to end up with, who makes everything change. I just wish you'd see it before another girl does because at the end of the day, everyone, including the nice guy you hurt, is rooting only for you.

I dream about you and it still hurts. My heart stops and rushes at the same time.