Sometimes what hurts the most is not the passing away of a loved one.
It's the emptiness that follows from the realization of losing the comfy blanket of support you could fall back on,
And that you have now lost this wonderful presence in your life.
That you now have to live on, possibly alone, with the sole memory of what they gave you while they were still there.
That they were gone,
Was not just a word.
Gone.
The harsh reality sets in that now is really when you have to make the choice.
It will be lonely and painful, but living on was what they wanted and you have to carry out the promise, for if you don't it would make their existence naught, and make them fade away quicker.
To suicide would be to escape.
It's not wrong, it's not cowardly. It's depressing.
To live would be to be the one who carries the weight of their name, their being, their soul.
And their love for you.
Will not be gone for as long as you live.
But if something died inside when they passed,
Will you truly live and have lived?
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