Well, here I sit... no one to talk to because the one I thought would always be there has walked out and found someone new. What is it about being alone that makes one want to talk? When I had someone here, I seemed to have nothing to say. I know it's for the best, bad love is a waste of time, energy, love and life, still it's so hard to start over. I grew so used to my life, as it were. Bad, hard, whatever. Where does one start? Somedays I'm not even sure I want to. Not sure I should. How and when do you know when the time is right? Eleven years I gave, just to have my heart and soul butchered. After promises of growing old together, now there is just me, the thoughts of him in another's arms, and the prospect of growing old alone. Dreams of empty houses, lethargy, depression, and lots of wine to kill the pain. I hear there is life out there, but of this I can only imagine. Of this I can only hope.
So tonight I will curl up on my side of the bed once again, hug my pillow, remember his touch, the warmth of his body, his smell, and wonder if waking up tomorrow is even a good idea.
And tomorrow will come, and I WILL wake up. And I will trudge along, remembering the pain, and wanting it, because the pain of what was "called" love is better than this pain I know now that is called starting over.
