The day she realized she wasn't living for Love; Love was Living for Her.

Diary,

I am not even sure of what to write to you today. I feel as though my heart has been hollowed out and is void of all feeling altogether. I do not even feel as though a single memory of Love remains within me. It is a difficult experience to explain. Perhaps I feel as though I am a little child again, with not a care in the world and no concern or awareness of any feelings past or future other than the feelings I am experiencing in this present moment.

I have always thought that that is something that I want. But it seems to me today that it is emptier than I remember.

I realized in a blissful moment the other day that even my joy is darker without him. In some cruel-twist of irony, the moments of my purest happiness somehow become anchored down with my greatest heaviness in wishing he were here to experience them with me.

I think, though, Diary, that even the memory of missing him is something of a comfort to me. It brings awareness to the reality that he is now no longer with me, but it also brings awareness to the reality that at one time, even if only for a small moment, I could call him mine.

I think I have learned today within this vacuum of detachment that I've felt (-or haven't felt?), that even my pain is preferable to feeling nothing. I do not even think, Diary, that reverting back to the previous Joys I've known with all memories of him erased would any longer serve to satisfy my soul. I cannot trick me; He has become so much a part of me it is as though the very fabric of my soul is fraying and nothing but the fabric of his Love can keep it from unraveling further. I feel some days as though my entire body has unraveled and every thread of me is lying bare on the ground in a haphazard heap of separateness of what was once previously interwoven to completeness by the careful caress of his hands.

The world can crumble around you, Diary; The very fabric and the matter of everything else can go to waste and can disengrate into nothingness, but once your heart has felt a Love like This, nothing can ever be the same. My body is lying threadbare and haphazardly on the ground; my skeleton, my muscles, my veins, my everything- but somehow, even still, my heart yet remains in place and yet continues beating on its own. And sometimes, I could swear to you, Diary, with tears flowing as freely from my cheeks as they are now, that the only way my heart ever could have learned to beat like that was from him, -and only him.