One year

I drew a doodle similar to this in AP US sometime this March while not paying attention to the First World War. I had the song below on repeat in my head, all melancholy like. I feel like now is an appropriate time to finish it, at least partially.



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Six days till the one year anniversary. I feel a bit broken inside. I feel like I'm not the same as I was that day; naive and emotional. It's unreasonable for me to say that I won't move on, but I don't believe I can go through the motions; not now, not without him. And even though he's changed so much from that night and I have too, I feel remnants of my dreams still reawakening that burning desire, like part of me would take him back unconditionally if only he asked.

I have come to the conclusion that I am no longer certain what is for the best--neither for me, nor for him. I think about the months, the seasons. Sweaty July nights experienced through a drained body fighting sleep. Chilled August, 2 a.m. on a dewy golf course. Frosted November, the zoo, the road, a fence... A pained and reluctant December, an ecstatic March's kitchen and fancy dress giving birth to a disappointed and distant April.

No, not all of me felt this, only a part I cannot repair. And it's the rest of me, in a gesture of saving face, which has diminished the value and importance of that part. The rest of me answers questions concerning my well being, my school, my friends, my grades... my life. The rest of me interacts, while that part stays hidden and shrinks. But nevertheless, a year later, now almost fully recovered, I find myself unable to move on and to let go. I find myself unwilling to accept my broken part as is, accept that missing piece as forever lost. I have changed because of time, because of a year. I have changed, and my parts now feel lost.

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I just thought I would share this with you, an entry to my personal journal. Even though I can listen to the same songs I listened to then, now without crying or feeling sad or nostalgic, and even though I now only think about this every few days, as the marks imprinted by the past travel through time, I find I think about it constantly. I walk through the same places I walked through once before, and I still see how they were then through the veil of how they are now. I still feel the hole that has not yet closed.

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What did you say?
That you only meant well, well of course you did.
What did you say?
That it's all for the best, of course it is.
What did you say?
That it's all for the best, you decided this.