I realize that heartbreak isn’t really beautiful. You read all these things that these morose poets write, and they give a sort of beauty to heartbreak. Heartbreak is brutal. It’s ugly. It drains the blood out of your body, and you’re forced to keep living somehow. It’s the coming alive that’s beautiful. When you’re finally able to listen to one of your favorite songs — after weeks of wearing earplugs because any sort of noise that was louder than your thoughts was overwhelming. It’s waking up in the morning feeling light after not being able to get out of bed for 3 days. It’s the craving of tacos you get after you haven’t been able to taste anything for a while. It’s finally feeling. Feeling anything; happy, or hungry, or sad even, after being completely numb to the world and blinking your existence by. It’s wanting to look at the stars again at night, to have your thoughts calm enough to be able to watch a movie, to drive with the window down and notice the way the wind feels on your fingertips. There’s nothing more beautiful than becoming yourself again, coming alive when you once begged to die.