Let's try this again.

It's difficult to let go of someone whom you once held in high esteem. The disillusionment of realizing that he, who causes you so much pain now, is the same he that you let in however long ago—that disillusionment feels like a noxious cocktail of nausea, regret, and hate. I think that it's the acknowledgement and attempt at comprehension of these emotions that truly renders you frankly and wholly hurt. "Heartache" seems to be quite apt of an expression, since the pain is dull, lingering, and sometimes consuming. But no amount of ibuprofen, caffeine, or acupuncture can remedy it.

That "time heals everything" bullshit always returns to mock me like the forgotten lyrics to Mariah Carey's "Heartbreaker." I remain stubborn, conceding that time simply makes you forget. Perhaps that's what healing really entails. I'm not quite sure. For as old as I claim to be and as I often feel, I'm not really all that wise. Being precocious doesn't really have much carry-over into your twenties, I suppose. Although, I find myself reverting to old methods of coping. I want to cut things and people out of my life. Trim the split-ends so your hair will grow, right? Well, I need to get my hair did, wash that man right outta my hair, whatever it takes.

I will acknowledge, I will embrace, and I will purge. I go through the ritual out of some quest to achieve more clarity. I have hope that life will acquire more clarity once I rid myself of this particular baggage. Still, a part of me holds out faith that there will be that 11th hour decision. As much as I try to regain my childhood simplicity, that innate optimism is often the sole barrier to any growth. Maybe that's just it? I'm looking for 'childhood simplicity' at twenty-years-old. I need to be more accommodating to my age if I want to be more content.

On verra, on verra. The only thing I know for sure is that it is a relief to write. I forgot how much catharsis can be a reality.