Bargaining.

 Now that rage doesn't consume all your energy, you lie in your bed, alone in the dark, to do business. The stage is set for negotiation. Maybe if you get something out of it, dealing with the true face of your feelings could be postponed! And isn't it good to postpone!

It comes when you put your phone down, tired of swipe left or right. Tired of sorting meaningless unimportant faces. They only highlight how perfect the one you lost was. They are there to show you blatantly how poor your emotional state is that you can't even keep a conversation going. You can't connect with people and that starts getting to you. At first, it's buried deep down your chest. Then, a bit of a finger raises to the surface. Next comes an arm, and this arm speeds up the process and, in seconds, your insecurities are all over your chest and body and mind and it doesn't stop right there as it follows to keep the room, the whole apartment and the building and the city and the country and the whole world. That makes you feel really alone. Not a place in the world will make you comfortable as you wish to be. No place will have her head liying gently on your right arm. Her hair's scent coming up through your nostrils and making it so pleasant you could die.

Among the dark smoke of sadness around yourself come feeble reptile creatures. They crawl gently but scratching your chest with their sharp nails, making their way into your head. They are the "what-ifs" and "if-onlys".

"If only I had been around more often?"

"If only I let her have the walls the colours she liked best?"

"If only I hadn't been so mean?"

"If only I hadn't been happier?"

"If only I had believed when they talked about depression?"

"What if I told her I love her now?"

"What if I go there now and act romantic out of the blue?"

It is all false hope, however. And you know it. Well, if you didn't know then, you do now.

The lizard creatures crawl out grinning and looking at you sideways. They know themselves they were successful in leaving you astonished and confused.

You hated her so much and now you are thinking of coming back together. "What do I exactly want?" you ask yourself, and, in return, you get your plain dumb face that tells you how lost you are.

Within this confusion, sadness creeps in once again. There is the pain and there is hurt. Maybe you still find a few lizards coming and going, but now you are not delusional anymore.

It is over because it is over.

Anger.

And there is hatred. It is still unclear towards who or what. It is as though you were a little toddler who is missing the toy you had seconds ago. You hate something you can't even exactly point at. You hate her. You hate her actions. You hate the situation. You hate yourself. 

You push away the feeling of rejection and hopelessness and cover it up with a nice level of anger.

It is easy to look down on everything that made you feel so irrelevant, that made you feel worthless. It is easy to have it under your feet to step on, to despise, to show disgust. Your thoughts are enrage with rethorical questions:

How could she let herself out with the first bloke she crossed paths with?

How could she let herself go out amisdt a pandemic?

How could she say she had used you so easily, so coldhearted?

How could she talk about future boyfriends coming in her (your both) apartment?

How could she be influenced and manipulated by workplace gossip and start to despise you for being different like everyone else?

How could she leave you when you needed her the most?

Well, it figures.

And yet, back there, in the crude mind there is a little sarcastic lad looking at you like "you know this is completely irrelevant". He enjoys torturing you: "you know if she calls, you'll be right there". This sad little man is right, but that only makes you hate him, too. He makes you feel the same piece of shite like everything else that is going on and you push him out to stop the nuisance.

You keep hating her and her going outs and her flerting and her texting random internet loosers. You hate it so much you begin to cry. Anger grows tall and, surprisingly-but-not-that-much, it crumbles into bitterness, into bits of resentment and fear of the truth.

Now you cry like the baby who hasn't been fed his emotional milk.

Shock and denial.

 The words have been said, but they still have no sense to you. Well, actually, they do have some sense, but they sound as decoration, something not quite what they are. They float above your head, but they don't get inside. They sound too untrue. The words are empty, and so is your mind, wondering about anything other not to think about what''s happening.

Your body, though, works as fine as ever. Except for the lack of sleep. The evening lurks up to you and reminds you of how alone you are now. During the day, it's easy to avoid contact with the truth. But it is in the evening that it gets you. Then your body aches, the flow of energy through your nerves coming from - guess where - your brain that got shrouded by the facts. It's over. Your feelings swamp you out in tears of sorrow, anger and, definitely - sadness.

The world now is seen through shades of grey. Flowers, birds and your team's jersey are as dull as the asphalt because you can only see what's inside of yourself. It's hard to find meaning in anything. You still bring food inside, but it is invariably tasteless. You still drink a cold one at the end of the day, but i fells as bland as water. Your life rolls out before you as if a film in the theater. You are merely an expectator, watching the events happen without having any way of interacting. You are numb, but it still hurts.

Your only hope is just that: to hope.

About talking.

 It is interesting how everything gets shaped out. Feelings carved by words made of sound waves. One can't be amazed that something is misunderstood, misintrepreted, mistaken. Words go back and forth and they produce energy waves in the brains, sometimes positive, sometimes negative, but energy nonetheless. They come and go, they fly and land - the words. But, sometimes, they don't. They can't even start. They are there just as concepts, but inside, deep down some in the brain. Yet they exist conceptually, as ideas, as could-have-been words - they don't exist phisically. And, at the end of the day, that's all that matters. Ideas amount to nothing, if they are not freed to be words.

Ideas do not generate feelings.

Words do.