The Heartbroken Journal: Prologue

It was the 28th of December 2016, I was sitting in bus going back home. “Two to three hours more before I arrive our house and finally rest…” I told myself. Beside me is a young man who seemed to be talking to a lady in his phone; I can tell it from the tone of his voice, the way his fingers are playing aimlessly on the seat in front of him. “Good grief,” I complained inside my mind, rolling my internal eyes. I felt a slight tinge of bitterness welling up in me.

The lights turned off inside the bus, leaving the dim lights on. I fell asleep immediately, exhausted from my day’s agenda. I woke up halfway the travel, when additional passengers are allowing themselves to be cramped up inside the bus, preparing themselves to endure the pitiful state of standing in the aisle of the bus just to get home.

My mind instantly wandered away from reality and went back to the memory of that same day’s event: closure.

I travelled from our province to the city just to have a closure. The very first moment that I confirmed that finally the closure I so long wanted to have is going to push through, I was overjoyed. I kept telling myself that I need it before this year ends. But on that bus ride home, I suddenly had the intense urge to forget that the closure ever happened—I was utterly broken after; I was, in fact, more broken than I ever was before the closure.

I cried awfully that night. Everything just seemed to fall down on me and I could only gasp for air. Pain was replacing the normal number of breaths I should take. I could not find any comfortable position to somehow, at least, make things less painful. I felt like I was a dying star, about to explode into a billion pieces of star dust, turning into a black hole which would suck everything in its proximity into oblivion.

Oblivion. At that moment of complete brokenness, I wanted to be oblivious from the world. I wanted to be alone with my heartache. I wanted to forget that I have other things to mind in my own life. It seemed that pain was telling me to come and sit awhile with it—to feel every face of it, the depth of it, the agony it brings, the loss it gives. Pain.

Sure, pain from loving a person who could no longer love you (or choose you, or stay with you, or for whatever reason) is somewhat a cliche. It is ubiquitous—you can find stories of it everywhere. But I want to write about it, here in my tiny space in the blogosphere. I want to write about the journey itself, the process, the day-to-day struggle and story. So I’m going to write from day one to day who-knows-what. I choose to write so that others won’t feel alone and isolated. So that the broken ones would know they are still doing well even in pain, that there are still beautiful things about to happen even if it seemed a ridiculous idea to hope for at the moment. And so that I may be completely free, too.

To starting over and beyond…

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