how could we be so careless with our love? so reckless. squandering precious moments, never to be returned to again. it feels cruel and pointless spending these moments, hours, days, weeks and months thinking of all the things I would do differently if i got the chance. Rewriting those moments, allowing them to breathe, letting the beauty and love in, rather than resentment and short tempers. it feels like some kind of pointless torture with no purpose other than emotional self mutilation, for i am both the torturer and the afflicted. is this all part of the process of grief, or a self indulgent act of masochism?