When all else fades....

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So, when the hands you once held, leave, the source remains.
In that sacred solitude, you meet the divine presence,
who does not leave,
who never grows weary,
who is not surprised by your brokenness.

At the end, there is deep peace in knowing that when all else fades, God remains.
Quietly, faithfully and eternally.

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But, trust me, if you stay in that silence long enough, if you let yourself fully enter it, you feel a presence. Not a presence, you can touch, but one you know. It is the Eternal. The 'One' who was never absent, only waiting for you to notice.
This isn't a lesson that comes from books, it's a knowing that comes in the ache of scorching heat, in the prayers whispered through tears, in the stillness after all the noise has passed.
People, that you love, are beautiful gifts. To say, they are actually reflections of divine love in human form.
But they are not the source, they point to the source.
This reminds me of my father. He used to say, "I am for the Lord and not for others; I am for the Lord, and so, for others."

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You go through life and you realize that human support is precious but limited. And when you go through the darkest phases of your life, you come to understand that divine presence is limitless and constant.
The ever-shifting seasons of life make us walk alongwith many souls. Some arrive like a burst of sunlight, some linger like twilight and others pass through like the wind, gone before we fully feel their presence.
For a time, we share the path by dreaming, growing and stumbling.
But life has a way of teaching in it's quiet wisdom.
One day, without warning, the crowd begins to thin. And we are left in moments, perhaps short, perhaps long.
Silence settles in. The laughter fades. The shared stories go quiet. The world feels achingly still.

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Some days, the world feels hollow, as if it is missing a fundamental note in its melody. Other days, the memories come soft and gentle, like a warm breeze, a quiet reassurance that love does not vanish; it only transforms.

The weight of loss never truly lifts, but with time, it settles, shifting from a furious storm to a steady tide. And so, we move forward, not because we forget, but because we remember. Because love, in its truest form, lingers. In the things they touched, the words they left behind, the lives they shaped with all their hearts.

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New people enter life, bringing their own laughter, but the heart hesitates. It searches for familiarity, for the same comfort that once felt like home. It seeks a reassurance no one else can quite offer, a love that was given unconditionally, without question or demand. And when that search proves futile, when no one quite holds space the way they did, the loneliness deepens. Not because others fail to love, but because love, once lost, alters the way it is received.

There is an art to missing someone. It is in learning to walk through familiar places without breaking down, in training your hands to reach for new routines instead of old ones and in being happy with people who aren't 'them'.
It is in swallowing the ache when you hear their favorite song from your previously played songs.

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The clock continues to tick, indifferent to the void that stretches across time. Days blur into nights. People smile, cars honk, birds sing but life continues, as if nothing has changed. And yet, everything has. The smallest details become unbearable reminders; the way hands found yours in a crowd without hesitation. These memories, once warm, now sting like salt on an open wound.

But the absence does not stop at what is lost; it extends into what remains. Relationships, once steady, begin to shift under its weight. Conversations feel emptier, even when filled with words. Smiles seem duller, no matter how bright. It becomes harder to trust, harder to let people in, because no presence can fill the void left behind. Every touch is measured against the warmth that is now missing, every word compared to the kindness that once was. Love itself feels different, less certain and less permanent.

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There is a particular silence that settles in a house after someone leaves it forever. It is not like the silence of midnight. It is heavier, louder, pressing against the walls and the air, filling every empty space with something unseen yet unbearable. Absence has a shape. The shape that a photograph hanging on the wall with flowers resembles.

At first, the change is in the obvious things—like the untouched chair in the roof, the unoccupied space in every photograph. But then, slowly, the absence seeps into the unnoticed corners of existence. A blue shirt worn only thrice, a sky blue ring worn more often—these relics become monuments of what once was, of what can never be again.

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Some whispers mend, some battles heal,
but not all wounds fade, not all scars seal.
And so I ask—why do we break,
even knowing life bends but does not reshape?

Why does the heart still dare to dream,
when fate is deaf to every scream?
Why do we kneel, hands pressed so tight,
only to watch our prayers take flight—
vanishing into an empty sky,
leaving us here, asking why?

Does this cycle ever cease?
Or are we bound to chase release,
to grasp at hope with trembling hands,
only to watch it slip like sand?

Tell me,dear,
is it foolish to believe,
to love, to try, to still deceive
ourselves with thoughts that life is kind—
when it only leaves us lost behind?

Some whispers mend, some battles heal,
but some wounds linger, some scars stay real.
And so I ask, again, again—
does this cycle never end?

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Do broken hearts heal, if you become cold?

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