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The Death of NC

Lost Love


Once upon a time there was a light in the life of my years. The engaging newfound scenery and sparking romance brought promise. Said promise fell through similarly to the unwavering complexity of a spatial black hole. The mornings sang with an abundance of hope and the nights laid waste to human, physical interaction. Exploration was prominent and vital to the time-stamped glory. Joys and wonders came aplenty; fears and doubts joined hand in hand, though the former took precedence. Masking insecurities stayed hidden within perplexities of this dynamic. The truth was cold, bitter, and utterly terrifying. Could this path truly stay to last? There is no wandering in a personal self-loathing of what once was. The sanguine paradox wrapped in expiration was surely to fall upon us—there is no escaping the penultimate peril of loves former embrace.

Heartache takes its toll on the body for this terminology is not simply a metaphor. Day in and day out the chemical loss of its former companion oozes a new form of desire. The status quo cannot be fulfilled as once was—this defiantly aids the shell shock of a conundrum which is loss. The soul attempts to repair itself with what little it may have left, and the void of not fully understanding why this happiness has been stripped from you corrupts the learning/restoration process. As with everything it is on a cycle; some good, some bad, others are known to be vicious and the antonym of these matters could be defined as euphoric.

The triggers come in waves stabbing at the senses in an unrelenting fashion. It burns me in comparison to the loss of any love that one may experience. We are given the opportunity to create memories which we cherish, however, can one fully and undeniably recover from those thoughts which we once held dearest now that they’ve transformed into our deepest, writhing, pains? This process reads as cruel; why does a creator allow such turmoil to take place not only in this aspect of life but in virtually all walks we know of?

There is something debilitating about “what once was.” The inspiration dies, and begins to mock you. The idea of how to be a person leaves like the flickering of a candle set to extinguish; the view of what you once held dear dims, fades, slips from life as easy as counting the numbers one, two, three. In an instance, the spectrum of time and ardent behavior leaves your grasp as though you were destined to only be strangers. 

Attempting to bury all we knew without you led to interactions with individuals who were not foreseeable in any personal future of mine. The burdens never left, they simply carry over. This stands the test of relatable time among many. Assimilating habits of one another, potentially falling in lust or love—discerning the two feels to be based on experience alone. People fall to the former time and time again, amounting to nothing more than resentment and baggage claims for their next attempt at finding "the one."

Is it all overrated hoopla, to search throughout the promising sea of many? If only a little songbird could flyby to grant a hint in our direction. On the contrary, wandering aimlessly is the sole guiding light until a soul protector enters our lives. Is anyone truly able to make sense of why we search? The coding in our veins limits us to thinking on such routine levels, and biological needs of acquiring a love which matters seems so confining. Especially in the wake of lost love. Leaving it to die has a ring to it when scraping the entry surface of human existence. Such positions allow rudimentary comfort like any obtainable reset button of which most people rely on vices for. 

Anything outlined by anyone is open to interpretation, and this is no different.  A series of broken thoughts transplanted by a broken heart. A purpose can have little to no basis, yet here this is to those whom have ever dealt with such relatable episodes that comprise our lives. 

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