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It grips like a vice, tight and unyielding, with a crushing force of unbearable pain, but not before it twists our hearts into a knot, forcing them out of rhythm and shattering them into tiny unrecognizable pieces.

While time may produce scabs, there is no such thing as healing or moving on or closure or peace. Once it finds us, we cannot escape it and we are never who we were before it set upon us.

It shows up without warning, without mercy or care to how it reeks havoc in our lives, laughing at our torment like an ugly clown at a freak show circus.

Loud and dark and cold at first, it slowly ebbs into a dull chronic ache, flaring at unpredictable moments of quiet, exploding into a raging white hot hurt that all at once, feels familiar in its wretched agony.

Taught to face it in stages that lead to acceptance, a lie we tell ourselves to cope, as there is not one thing tolerable in the emptiness and sorrow that fills our soul from its presence in our lives.

Yet, it is inescapable. It finds all of us, one way or another and all throughout our lives to varying degrees. We learn to suffer through its misery. The irony being, that without it, we would not know what love truly feels like. We would not know the meaning of life.

Despite its necessary cruelty or perhaps because of it, we would not have the benefit of understanding what we have because in a nasty twist of fate, we must lose it to have the fullest knowledge of its gifts.

It is the loneliest experience in life and the hardest part of love.