Looking at the world from the bottom of a well

Taking old conversations, old memories, old happinesses, and pressing them close to me, I try to imbibe the essence of what was - that which died a slow death, and which, at the end of this long, long time, I cannot see even a spark of. I see two different people, and I hold on to the one that I loved. Tight.
The memories - I make them into a mosaic, weaving them tightly together, to form a screen that I can lean on, and rest on, when I am unhappy and exhausted.
The old writings, and confessions and declarations of love - I put them away in a trunk under my bed, which overflows with little scraps of paper - and this are affectionately read every time I clean my room and dust off the trunk. They make me laugh, loud and long. They were always that good. *smiles*
Bon Jovi's Always comes to mind. Not the sentiment of the song, but, as is more common, certain lyrics that jump out in one's mind:
All the pictures that you left behind
Are just memories of a different life
Some they made us laugh
Some they made us cry
*irrelevant-to-current-emotion rhyming lyric here*
I'm trying desperately hard to be fair to what was. And to forget the long, drawn-out unpleasantness. Really forget it, and the details. I'd rather have a dark haze over my memories of two years than recall unhappy details. I'd rather just accept that I did have some dark years.
And now... where am I now? That's a question I'm having difficulty answering. It's been so long since I was alone and lonely that I don't remember what I'm supposed to do. That's curiously ironic; humorous but not funny.
Strange... I can't bear to think about what was, except in the very best terms, any more. Too...numb...to go beyond that.
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Dear Time,
Please heal me.
Love,
Asma.