On the sting of heartbreak

I have almost forgotten the sting of heartbreak; the cruel void left by a girl whose presence once consumed your life. Verily, this is a good thing, but sometimes, I think I miss that feeling; not for the pain itself, as would a masochist, but for those rare, magical emotions that the pain evokes. I cannot describe them now since I have lost all sense of the pain from heartbreak. But it used to be that I could write ceaselessly through the melancholic night, and everywhere I looked, I found newer treasures and newer perspectives. The pain forced me to expand the ordinary, once crumpled up by ignorance, into a splendid fan of colors. Whoever knew that sweetness was stored like a tiny seed in the bulb of pain. But of course, I only wish to experience it, insofar as it may acquaint me once more with that mystifying sweetness, and not, as it happened the last time, when the pain was real and irremediable, to persist in all my activities and rob me continuously of both will and vitality.

I’m wondering now if a heartbreak could be manufactured; though certainly not to the original degree. I’ll imagine having had a life with you and then sink slowly into the present, where we neither exchange a word. Yes, that ought to do it.