After three years ...everything becomes one big blur. And what happened in Sophomore year could be the same thing that happened Senior year. Deja Vu. It's all one constant memory. And nothing begins or even ends. Because it's my circle. This is my life.

I'm listening to the same songs that I listened to when we first broke up. And all the times in between when we gave up and made up. The countless incidents and nights of insults and jeering. The countless nights of kissing and embracing. And everything feels exactly the same. The kissing and the jeering are all the same. Complete opposite memories evoke the same emotion from me.

Indifference.

The kissing becomes the jeering. And the jeering the kissing. Nothing really is what you think it is. And nothing matters as much as you complain about it.

My heart is broken, but that is nothing new. So when I'm happy I'm sad and when I'm sad I'm happy. Everyday is the same day as before. And nothing is special. It's because of the routine, the coincidence, the constant repitition. I'm suppose to be sad this minute but I found a reason to be happy. So I'm technically sad by the schedule of my day, but I'm happy because I let myself.

And I know none of this will make sense to anyone but myself. I'm not phrasing it right. I can't play with words like I use to. But this is okay, because I'm going into Biology - Premed. And there is no room for words. It's all about science now. This is my future.

This is now.

And I'm okay because this has happened before. And you may not think so because I am rambling. But it is because I am rambling that I am okay.

Don't you see?

I need to organize my thoughts. Or at least have them out there. I finally understand the meaning of therapeutic. I thought I wanted to write because it made me feel better as a person, because it made me feel special in the way that no one could write the way that I could.

But the way writing is for me. Is it takes away my pain. Because it makes me okay with what is going on in my life. Because I take out all of my thoughts and put it on paper. And all of this is begining to make sense. That cliche about writing is finally understandable, tangible, and respected.

I'm okay because I have a friend with words. It makes me connect with myself. Because I don't have to be so sad by myself, my paper can be sad with me. I don't have to keep it bottled up inside, trying to remember so I could learn from my mistakes, but trying to forget because the pain is blinding me from living.

So I can finally live without letting anyone know my weakness. I don't have to cry to my friends because the paper listens. And I respond with my hands, my pen, my fingers, whatever. And this is okay.

This is finally okay.

I'm finally getting there.

After all these years, I'm 15% closer to getting over him. I've said this so many times before, but it's okay to say this to the paper. Because it won't judge me. It won't remind me that I've done this before. It won't say, "I told you so." And make me feel like shit, because I couldn't let go of my first love.

After all these, years I'm 15% almost there. Just 85% more and maybe these years will go faster than the last three. And 15% more won't take three years, but maybe just one year. And I could speed up the process.

Because I have to understand, that although I am the first. I won't be the last. He will love others but only after me. And I will alawys come first, whether or not he remembers. It will come to him in dreams and invisible ink, only in thoughts.

And this is okay, because I will find someeone else too.

And I feel better already.