Living.

Breathing isn't all I do nowadays.

There were some moments in the past that would have loved to make me believe that all I ever would be is them. That they would encompass everything beautiful I would ever feel, that they were all I had to live for.

Love.
It's not a lie but it's not everything. There's so much more.

So much more I could want, that I do want. So much more that wouldn't be so complicated to attain.
So much more I could do with my previously sorry existence.

There's nothing as immensely...satisfying...to the soul, I suppose, than feeling that way, yet I find myself rendered incapable of ever feeling that deeply again.

All those cracks that have finally filled up seem to have blocked the entrance to that corner of my heart that I fear, even after all the...fixing, will forever remain broken.

But there's the rest of me, not just that stupid aching beating organ, which can do so much more than pine over what is forever lost.

And even if it comes back to me, I could never take it back. I just...couldn't.

Maybe I've been rendered...romantically impotent. The good news is that I don't need this in my life.
Not in the here and now anyway.

I'm going to sweep these pieces under the rug and not enter this room any more. Leave it bleak and empty, wait for the dust to collect. Maybe when I turn the knob again after forever and push the creaking door open, these pieces would have also crumbled to fine nothingness.

And until then I'll have music and friends and...everything else I've simply neglected, when I was staying true to the hopeless romantic in me.

Let's dream again, and about things I can actually have.