I love the unloved.

I love the broken.

I love the lonely.

I love the torn.

2013 was a great year for me. I got employed full-time for six months, I enrolled myself into evening Photography classes, I got into my dream art school, I got to the 2-year mark with my then-boyfriend, I turned 21..

The biggest leap forward for me then was the fact that after 11 long years, I finally got over the death of my late grandfather. I never told this to anyone but I've never felt whole again when he passed away. I was only 10. No one understood how his death took a great toll on me, neither was I ever going to tell anyone. I kept it to myself for the longest time.

Last year, as I stood over his grave, I took a look around and I eventually came to my senses. I heaved a huge sigh of relief and I felt much lighter. My chest was less heavy and my mind was cleared of this dark void that had been lurking for the past 10 years.

I smiled to myself as I walked away, and let a tiny tear drop.

That was it.

This is it, I thought.

I had a man in my life so I was happy letting my grandfather go. He never really left anyway, he was always with me, in my heart and in my soul.

I stopped grumbling and Sad became the only man in my life.

Fast forward to 2014, I am sitting at the dining table, tearing up slightly as I type this. That weight on my shoulder is back. I'm once again, carrying this heavy sack of feelings I'm unable to put away.

I'm in pieces.

I don't really know how to put this nicely neither do I want to appear like I'm not dying inside, but why was it always so simple with her? What is it with her that always made you go back to her every time?

It feels as though, for two years, I put all my heart and soul into loving someone who never really loved me entirely. And it kills me.

I try to wrap my head around it but every time, the only conclusion I can come up with is that I'm the problem. I never really had a constant man-figure in my life. My father left the family, I don't have the best relationship with my brother, my grandfather passed away, and the boy I love so dearly deleted my photos on his Instagram account.

I know I'm the problem, and trust me, I've been attempting to get rid of the problem for so long.

I think about leaping off my bedroom window all the time. I live on the 11th floor.

Life is beautiful, and so is Death. That moment before you reach the ground, the wind in your hair, that smile on your face is finally genuine. Your tears are tears of joy, and the hard, cold concrete wraps itself around your body. It loves you. It loves you entirely as I have always loved it. It hugs me as I fall asleep. This sleep is eternal. My mind is quiet and black. I'm surrounded by nothing but darkness. It is, I tell you, fucking gorgeous.

Have you ever been so sad that you're happy that you're sad? I have. And it feels good.

It feels gold dragging this sadness around with me. Ironically, it makes me feel human. And with this pathetic emotion, I celebrate life with a heavy heart. No, no it doesn't sound that bad, trust me. Once you're able to be at peace with nothingness, you embrace the darkness in your heart. The darkness that once lingered in your head, but now it is that darkness that powers your heartbeat. Your heartbeat is life and death itself. Your heart is this oxymoronic machine that pumps all this negativity into your soul and it feels so great.

I hate it that when I sleep, my body wakes me up eight hours later. I want to sleep permanently.

While everyone celebrates life, I celebrate death. Because it is so beautiful. And I believe that every human being should at least fall in love with death for awhile, get to know it better and embrace that death isn't such a bad entity.

You'll look at life so differently, to the extent that life appears almost too surreal for you.

Don't say that I'm not okay.

I am.