Please review—I would appreciate it more than you know... my nose is broken and I would love it if you let me know what you think about this! : )




What is it?

It's losing something, no doubt—but often times, heartbreak occurs over a period of time—and one day, we wake up and realize that our heart has been shattered into a million pieces.

And it is then that we realize that nothing can be done. It is then that we realize that our life, our existence here on this earth, has been and will be a total waste.

Sometimes, yes, love does last—but most of the time it goes away—it ends, leaving a bitter taste and remnants of passion left behind, and an ache that protrudes even the happiest of moments.

There are always fairytales, of love lasting until the end of time, "happily ever after" they call it—but no, in the real world, in the now, in the present time, happily ever after ends—it's not forever.

Pain is a part of life—a part of the game—it comes with the territory. If you want to be alive, you're going to have to endure pain, that's just the breakdown of it all. And the worst pain, the most horrendous type of pain is the pain that makes the heart break. Because, though the rumors have been spread, the lies told throughout the world—there is no way to mend a broken heart. That, too, is impossible. How can you undo the shattering of the very life which you breathe? You can't—however pessimistic that may seem, it's realistic, it's the truth—broken hearts don't heal. They never have, and they never will.

Images of a heart with a band-aid placed strategically upon it have circulated for years—feeding the fire, the absolute illusion, that says hearts can be made whole again. But it's false—all of it is falsehood. Once you lose a part of yourself—once your heart tears in two, or more pieces—you will never be the same again.

And people will ask you how you've been—and you will answer them steadily with a "fine", or an "okay" or occasionally a "good." But it's not true—you're not fine, you're not okay, and you're never good—and the sad truth is that you never will be.

Yet another impossibility that comes with the territory.

Sure, you may convince yourself that you can love again, and in remote cases, you can—but you're never the same—no matter how hard you try to convince yourself that you are, the fact remains that you're not.

Your smile dulls a little with each passing day, your eyes grow dimmer with each passing hour, and your tears grow heavier with each passing minute—you cry all the time—inside, you cry.

And the worst part of it is: the tears will never stop. You'll never be able to stop the flow of the tears that sent you spiraling into your current state—the salty taste will always be in your mouth—the hurt will always be in your heart.

You can laugh—but that, too, is not the same. Laughing, an act which you once found so fun, so lively, has become a chore—something you never want to do again—but yet, you do it, to be polite—to be courteous—and you hate every minute of it.

Your spirit, which everyone once said was so lively, so pure, so unadulterated, and so magnetic—dies. It dies along with the glint in your eye, along with your naïveté, along with any prior notion that you had that said the world could be anything but cold and cruel and mean and scathing.

Your hopeful dreams are replaced with chilling nightmares—and you always remember what it was to be happy—that's something you can never forget. But you are constantly plagued with the knowledge that true happiness is something you can never again have, because now you know that the world is not a place in which to rejoice—it is a place in which sorrow and hurt will always prevail, no matter what.

You're struck with pain, and remembrance that you never wanted to have—that you never asked to have—that you would die to give back—but yet, it's always there. The gnawing notion that love screwed you over—that love took your life away—that love, the kind they speak of in the movies, where rainbows and butterflies prevail—doesn't exist.

You slowly begin to associate hatred with love—and love with pain. For now, pain is all you know—pain is all you see—pain is all you hear—and you know, deep down inside, you know, that it is all you will ever know.

Because sometimes, it does cost too much to love—you know that now—you know so much now.

You know that smiles aren't promises, and hugs aren't contracts.

That is what heartbreak is.

It's a slow descent into depression—a depression so dark and deep that it is impossible to climb out. Heartbreak is watching yourself suffocate not being able to do a thing to stop it—heartbreak is what you will never live down, is what you will never get over, is what you will never move past—because it rocks you to the core—it changes your foundation—it crushes your soul.

And sometimes, if you're lucky—you can ease the pain enough to continue living, and once in a blue moon, you can move on, you can hold on while letting go, you can learn to live, and you can try to love....

Sometimes you can make the past dim in the recesses of your mind—lost but not forgotten—

Because heartbreak rocks you to the core—changes your foundation—makes you into someone you never thought you'd become...

And this...

This is my story.



I have a broken nose (tear) and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to read reviews from y'all!

With love,