((Appologies, this is less a short story than the category would suggest, but it is short...and sort of a story, so it'll do.))
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The day we left each other was the day a part of me disappeared. I say disappeared rather than was lost or left with her because to begin with I didn’t notice it had gone, and in my opinion that is the definition of loss. So I ambled aimlessly through the contours of speech and illusion to discover more of the world, blindly ignoring the change in my life. Ignorance, in this case, was not bliss. Rather than leaving my smiling and unaware I was merely unaware. Confused, uncertain and altogether at a loss.
Unable to discover the source of my worry I began tracing the origins and found, to my horror, that the source of my worry was the loss of my worry. Without the painful irritation of that woman my mind was unfocused. I had neither a shining emblem of womanhood on which to base beauty and perfection, nor did I have the motivation to explore those passages, or the places of utter annoyance this emblem maintained within me. As such I lay, silent, on my bed. My eyes dulled into soft focus, my brain slowing to match the vague emptying of my soul and then nothing. No snap of ‘aha!’ or ‘eureka!’ My whole being had become numb.
As such I proceeded to attempt to rekindle my thoughts, entering new places, staying up late, getting up early, watching the stars, watching the sun, watching people, talking, keeping quiet, shouting at nothing, writing for nothing, writing for something. But nothing kept seeping into all that I did. A nasty emptiness, as if I were stood outside the room occupied only by one recently dead soul, knowing that there was more nothingness behind that door than nothing, but unable to even comprehend its fullness.
What would you do? Would you have done more than I did? More to the point then, what did I do? Did I rekindle the flame that burnt once bright?
No. I did not. It is a light that I do not ever see igniting again. It is within that room where the dead dwell, and I am still outside. My only inspiration the memory of a muse, the embers of what was, still warm enough to smell and feel, but never enough to comprehend the moments that preceded, when the fire burnt with crackle and glow long into the night.
Remember my friend, despite all you are, all we are, the universe will tick on, long past our departure.