There are times when I go to my Myspace page just to look at it as if I'll find myself there, somewhere. I look into my photos and search for some reason for my existence. Some reason to not be lonely and depressed. There on myspace no one tells me that my photos are beautiful nor do they comment on what I write and it makes me ponder my reasons for going back. It isn't enough to take wonderful photographs if hardly anyone enjoys them. At least here on the stream, people like them.

It is true that I'm horribly depressed right now and that the struggle is overwhelming. Conor is gone and there is nothing to fill the void that his death left me with. Gibson is different, he could go anywhere and anyone could care for him but Conor only had me and I couldn't let him down. Nor can I quit loving him. It felt weird that few people really seemed to care that I lost him and it made me realize just how few are those who know me and care about my life. It is as if Conor's passing was so easy when he meant the world to me, than so would mine be. Maybe that doesn't make sense to anyone but me. But when he was gone it was as if there was just a big empty hole left and that no one would catch me if I fell into it. I'm not sure life is supposed to be that way. I don't think we are meant to live without loving or being loved. While work might fulfill us and make us feel important, it ends eventually and then what is our reason for getting up each morning or for going to bed at night? Believe me when I write that it just gets harder and harder as time wears on. When you look up one day and you are single and 15 years go by and it has never changed, it gets harder. Except for four brief years with Conor that is. He made me smile and care. He taught me to laugh and he gave me a reason.

Now the hole grows larger and I fear that it will swallow me. I can't do anything to stop this but would do anything if it would. Being happy is so much easier than being lonely, old and miserable - Conor taught me that. I'd do anything to not feel this way. So I stare into my photographs and look for passion - for a reason to take another one. I look for the strength to take another picture, if only for myself. I also look for the strength to allow my own vision to grow instead of letting others influence what I like.

In the interim I barely wash the dishes or cook dinner. I begin packing a box and my hand goes insane and just fumbles around, unable to hold onto anything. Then the pain grows. When I let it rest the pain gets better and that feeling is much more welcome than hurting. So the circle in which my life goes around is getting smaller. I don't mean to be this way but it is just the way it is. One good thing that has come out of all of my anguish is the writing. At least I'm doing more of it.