“Love is so short. Forgetting is so long.” – Pablo Neruda

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I thought I would never forget about you.

That wasn’t accurate.

I thought I would spend a lifetime looking for you.

I thought I would never love that same way. I thought nobody else’s words could touch me that deeply, that truly—with such precision of soul connectedness, of accuracy, of love.

They say love is an emotion, but it isn’t. It is a story of chemistry, of why you were the one and no anyone else could have been.

The truth is, you were nothing but random.

Life made our paths cross, as you said, on the other side of the world—because it was supposed to.

Love is a story of accuracy—of being the right energy.

You clicked, like I would have clicked with myself.

But I’m listening to our old songs, old songs of you, at some things that remind me of you, and the truth is: you are gone.

I thought I would spend a life not being in love, because of our love.

I thought no other man would have eyes of that same blue.

I thought nobody else would feel so close.

None of these were true.

It’s funny, yet so beautiful, how life is—one day you think you are dead, that you already passed away, but you aren’t.

You think that life has left you, but it didn’t.

You think love only had one name, it doesn’t.

One day he leaves and you see yourself laying on the floor, breathless, lifeless, desireless, hopeless, futureless. You think you lost everything that was you—but in fact, at that exact moment that you thought you were forever laying there, you were up. And you became something you never were before in your life.

A broken heart that stood up.

The girl who transformed pain into power.

The woman who made herself, after losing you.

Younger me, here is what I would like to tell you: you thought life ended, but it didn’t. So much joy was awaiting you.

Life is lovely in its forever reforming cycles of joy.

In fact, it’s our darkest hours that create who we are.

Because when all is gone, we must make life from ashes and rebuild ourselves with our own two hands, from the void—novel of bravery, prayers, and inner strength.

It’s the horror, the drama, the intensity of loss that paradoxically give us the strength to come back.

Because when we reach this space—when we hit rock bottom—the only possibility is to come back.

We are left with no other option, no other choice.

I found my courage in the darkest night.

I found myself, by losing you.

I found self-love, by losing the best external source of love and light—you.

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