The state you’re in won’t go away without putting up a fight. It is vicious and savage; it either destroys you or it dies. It most definitely does not fade away, does not go out with muffled sobs or quiet whimpers. It screams and lashes, annihilating everyone and everything within its reach.
It will leave you crying on cold bathroom tiles, writhing in pain with the emptiness in you heart.
But it is important.
It is good.
You will be fixed. Not just temporarily repaired. You will do it. I know, all you can write about right now are broken promises, scattered pieces of a broken heart and the drying tears on your cheeks. But you will stand up. You would try, at least. You will try writing about healing wounds, heavy smiles, and hearts fluttering with hope, even if shadowed with fear. You will not run away from the wolves. Not anymore. You will fight for them, because you were one of them.
I’m not saying that it will be easy. All I’m saying is that even if it isn’t, you will follow the map of self discovery embedded in your skin, and realise that you are stronger than you give yourself credit for. This is also not a story with a fairytale ending. It is painfully real, one of startling clarity.
Life isn’t a cassette tape; it can’t rewind. It is an old classic, an enriching novel that leaves you wondering why you hadn’t discovered it earlier. Then there will be a time, when days like these are buried away, never visited again. They will be in sepia tones, a picture that reflects on the past, but also on the beautiful person that you will become.
That will be the day you will be able to write about the happy things, the beautiful moments. The long summer days and the starry nights. The double ice cream scoops and the midnight goodbyes.
That will be the day you will tell the story of how you ended up on the roof of your own home, barefoot. At 2 am, wanting to set the world on fire.