To my broken heart,
There is very little that you care to hear right now.
You are like a child having a tantrum, laser-focused on the one and only thing that will soothe you. Any other offering is an agitation— nothing more than a bitter reminder of what it is not.
All you want to hear is that there was some mistake. That it didn’t happen. That it is, was, just a dream, a nightmare. I wish I could give you that. But nothing short of a time machine can un-break you.
There’s a lot of information directed at you, information designed to help you heal faster.
Maybe this was some sort of a blessing, was “meant to be,” there’s some lesson to be learned. Infinite derivatives of that. Blah blah blah. They are like bandaids to an amputation. They are impotent and ridiculous. The brain and the heart are separate entities. The words may fit snuggly in the psyche but they can not heal a broken heart any more than they can heal a broken leg.
Only time can heal a wound.
What’s more, the words, the perspectives, they try to define something that needs no defining. They try to morph whats concrete into something complex and abstract.
There’s no point. Its simple.
It fell and it broke. It is of no consequence why and how the break occurred. What does it matter if it was pushed maliciously or inadvertently. Or if it wasn’t pushed at all. If it jumped. If it slipped. If it was careless. If it tripped over something or itself.
The fact—the only fact—is that it—you—are wounded and worn and plain.
Yesterday I saw a woman screaming into a cell phone and I thought of you. How you’d so like to do that. How you’d like to stomp your feet and scream and lash out. And how it would do exactly nothing to dull your pain.
You need a refuge. A quiet place to rest, where you can take a break from the frustration of trying, futiley, to heal. You’re tired from the yearning and the pining for a salve that does not exist. The straining towards a light that you can not reach and the inevitable ricochet that snaps you right back, again and again, into the darkness, the waiting.
No pleading or pulling or screaming or wailing can reach time. It comes when it’s ready. It will find you.
For now you are floating in an infinite ocean.
You can not yet see the shoreline. There is no forward and no back. This vastness, this nothingness, this is all there is for now.
Some days you’ll float into another sad heart, similarly broken. There are tons of them. Floating here in the nowhere. And you can, whenever you like, float next to each other and visit.
But they don’t need saving. And neither do you.
You can sit with this, you can endure this, you can survive this. You already are. You are unhinged, unraveled, a raw nerve. And you are breathing, you are floating. You are not drowning.
Eventually, the horizon will unfold and softly reveal itself. And the tide will bring you back to me.
I’ll meet you back here. Back in your vessel, your body, your home. And we will have another sail, another love, another fall, another break. And we will heal.
Again and again.
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Editor: Renée Picard
Photo: Mitya Ku at Flickr
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