You can’t kill me when I’m already dead.

As The colours of the city faded to grey, I sat upright in bed. It was 2 in the morning and I couldn’t find a way to get to sleep. My back was sweating and my head was aching. I felt as if my brain were full of tacks, sharp objects poking away at each thought and pounding at my temple. We had fought harder than we had before.

I was at a standstill, unable to differentiate my happiness between dread and my feelings of euphoria for melancholy. My sense of stability had been compromised and the underlying fabric of my reality began to expose years of pulls and tears.

When faced with moments of difficulty, how is one supposed to respond? Do you curl into a ball and wait for it to pass, or do you face the problem head on? I have always found solace in my heartache, the montage of memories that float by as I replay the past in front of my eyes.

I was faced with a significant change. I fell in love with someone who could tear at my heart, someone who could puncture the tissue and relish in the blood that was produced. Was it time for a break? Time to start fresh and move on to something new. I did not think so.

Could I handle the upheaval of change? Could I move forward from the difficulty of the present or was I to look at myself with clear eyes, a man with a broken heart and a stubborn mind.

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