I wrote that the night I first moved in to my very first apartment. It was tiny. A laughable "living room" and the closet-sized kitchen with two burners, a stove, and no microwave. I remember keeping leftover fried rice in the fridge for weeks at a time, re-heating it in my tiny saucepan over the stove. For a few days, I had a very peaceful existence. After re-reading my old journals, I discovered that my life at that time was tumultuous, up in arms and changing almost more than I could handle. But for some reason, like always, I found little peaceful eddies to slow my hurdling progress through a foamy, quick, dangerous rapid in my torrential life. I fell in love with a woman.

Six years of giddy playfulness, ritual games, devastating drugs, and an intolerable wavering love pass, and I leave her because I can't take those words anymore. I can't take the disconnection. I break, and leave. I hastily gathered my belongings and scattered them across three cities with people I trust, who just happen to have some extra space for a while. And there they sat, until today, when I recovered my lost belongings and have reconnected with my familiar objects. It was helpful, I admit, to be surrounded by nothing familiar for those first few months, and it was easy to forget about all those letters, anniversary cards, nicknames... With those small remembrances gone, I've nothing left to remind me of any aspect of that past. I moved on taking with me the lessons I learned, but not the memories. Until now.

Old anniversary cards, old love letters, old letters filled with searing words that still send a narrow burn down my spine, old photos of all times, good ones, bad ones, interesting ones. Now I can't deny those experiences, and now I have to live with the truth that I did love her, tremendously. I loved her, and I cherised every giggle and every kiss and every argument. Now I have to live with the truth that I watched a healthy high burning love dim slowly, until all that was left was the burning orange-hot wick and smoke wafting high from a sudden lost flame. Like countless others, I've now experienced a dying love, and it terrifies me.

Something I cherished and nurtured and cradled so passionately, something I considered unwavering, was capable of death. And my world was shattered because so much of the faith I had in the world had to do with the everlasting quality of love. And, at first, when I perused the spilled cards and old writings, I grew sad again, but then I realized, I still love her, but that love was not enough. I need more than just love. I need nurturing and caressing and cuddling and smiling and laughing and so much more than just love.

The only trouble is, now that I've found someone who can give me love and all those other -ings I need, I find myself terrified that her love for me will fizzle, just like the one before, because my love just isn't enough. All I can do is ride out the storm, and dream my lovely dreams.