There is something to to be said about a broken heart. Broken is a dramatic, clichéd, rather ridiculous statement to make. But never the less, that is exactly what it feels like. That weight in your chest. The raw edges rubbing and fraying against the old bray of your heart. (Sylvia reference.) “I feel the weight of the world in my chest and a heaviness that makes me tired, yet unable to sleep. This is the hardest pain. Letting you go.”
I thought I knew what loss was. I thought I knew was loneliness was. I didn’t have an inkling.
What I have learned, over and over again, is that the dysfunction in the “normal”, the unhealthy in the “love”, is not worth the sacrificing of yourself. Just because you are used to the breaking, or even find a sick home in the breaking; it does not absolve the breaker. Pretty words in a pretty cup with a pretty flower do not erase the gapping holes and visceral lacerations made by an expertly wielding swordsman. Calculated cuts from a deadly precise blade. Sprinklings of salt sink into a wound that the swordsman tries to cover with roses. The biggest roses you've ever seen. Large enough to make sure the whole world sees them. But the pain is bigger. Or rather, shall I say, the memory is bigger.
The wise wound will mend, apart.
Time does not heal all wounds for me. It teaches me a lesson. It teaches me a scar. It may take me quite some time to completely revolve back around my planet to start a new orbit without you, without pain. With peace. With forgiveness. With love. With remembrance. But assuredly, it is my destiny to be happy. To do something great. (With or without public acknowledgement.)
The Bible tells us that “God prepares a table before thee, in the presence of thine enemies.”
It’s true.
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