The only thing that remains.

They say every day is a fresh start. That life is like a novel, and you don't know what's next until you turn the page.

You grow up hearing such optimistic things, but eventually you learn that everything's eventual.

So one day you wake up and realize that you're still thinking about her. You try as hard as you can to tell yourself not to think about it, but you can't stop thinking about whatever you're trying to stop thinking about. You know you saw her in a dream again, even if you can't remember what it was about. It may not have had a plot, any side stories, but you know you were thinking about her.

You tell yourself not to, and look at yourself in the mirror. Where did I go wrong? You ask yourself. You can't look at yourself anymore, so you stare at the drain in the sink instead. The water flowing into it, disappearing.

You're fine so far, you've done a good job of pretending she's not there, in the back of your head. Gnawing away, nibbling away, scratching at the surface of your brain. The border of your worst nightmares.

You look around you, and everyone seems too busy to notice. The lack of life in your eyes, the lack of appetite and desire for anything. This one's your own burden to carry, you tell yourself that. Over and over, that you'll be fine. You were born alone, and that's just how it's supposed to be.

You're doing fine. You've been doing fine. You've been alive for 23 years, by yourself, must account for something, you tell yourself. All the while, ignoring that scratching, nibbling at the back of your head.

You try, and find things to occupy yourself with. You play mindless video games all day, driving over people, shooting imaginary guns. Reading your books, doing your computer things. Anything to not think. Anything to keep yourself distracted. A facade you play with yourself, day in and day out. They say it's the only thing that will help. You start hating "them" by principle of conditioning.

Then one day, you're going through your hard disk because you've managed to fuck up your computer again. All your back up is on your hard disk, and on accident you run into the folder with all of her pictures.

This is when you realize that it wasn't just a small nibbling, scratching, gnawing in the back of your head. It's also the huge void in your chest. The deep darkness in your lungs. The abyss you can not do enough justice to no matter how much you try to verbalize it, to describe it.

The fact that no matter what you look at, experience, your first instinct is to run to her and tell her about it. Like a fucking puppy, bringing dead birds to their owner's door step. Look at what I've accomplished, look at what I've learned. I wanted to share it with you, because you seem worthwhile, and I'd feel selfish otherwise. The best person in the world.

Everything's eventual.

The fact that you can't go back to your music, or anything else that made you feel comfortable, because it's all tainted by the memory. The only thing that remains.

So you stay up all night, thinking about everything that you had, and everything you have lost.

According to Arabic literature, "love" has seven stages;
Attraction, infatuation, love, reverence, worship, obsession, and death.

Makes sense to me. And maybe that's what the whole problem here is.