I don't think that I am happy, but then again, I don't know. Sometimes I get so caught up in the process of living-- of eating, dressing, taking the train to work, that I don't give it enough thought. Maybe happiness is being content.But is it really?

I'm trying to decide what's worse. Someone being gone, but still out there, or someone being gone forever, dead. I think someone being gone, but still out there, might be worse. Then there’s always the chance, the hoping, the wondering if things might change. If maybe one day he’ll come back. There’s also the wondering about what his new life is like. The life without you. Is he happier? And if he is, you’re left being sad, wondering what it would be like if you were happy with him. But when someone is dead, he’s dead. He’s not coming back. There is no second chance. Death is a period at the end of a sentence. Someone gone, but still out there, is an ellipsis…or a question to be answered.

I cry and wonderhow I'm going to fall asleepbecause sleeping means wakingand going through all this again

I don't like this ideaIt is too much focuson something I am trying to forgetI am afraidthat this attention to detailwill only fuel my anxiety

Is this what all the years of schooling were for? To prepare me for this Sense of being stuck in the middle?What was the point? No one said I was going to be this sad.No one said I would still be crying.

Even the pigeons are dancing, kissing,going in circles, mounting each other.Paris is the city of love,even for the birds.