It comes out white, pure and innocent. Blank to the onslaught of those around it. It’s defenseless--delicate, vulnerable and prone to be easily ripped, torn apart and trampled on. You can make a mark on the paper and the mark could be rubbed out with enough patience and time.But once you rip the paper, once you scribble on the paper with ink; once you cover the heart with blackened ink; once you drown the heart in blackened tears… you can never get it back the way it was at the beginning.
It just lies there, forgotten, and once remembered, it’s ready to be picked up and awkwardly fitted back together again just to be torn apart once more. It suffers many wounds and once the heart has finished bleeding and crying out, it heals. But once it heals, it leaves a scar--just like when a piece of paper is torn apart, you have to tape it back together again and those torn and jagged scars will remain forever--an ugly reminder of the pain.
So how is it possible for my paper heart to keep beating?
We have to just keep picking up the pieces over and over until you meet that one special person, who’ll kiss the wounds better and heal it. The one person who will take forever if he has to, carefully piecing back the puzzle pieces slowly and surely with masterful fingers (so gentle, that it almost hurts) to glue the you back together until you're almost whole again.
That one person is out there,
That one person is out there,
I just need to look harder.
Until then, my fragile, vulnerable and prone-to-be-easily-ripped-torn-apart-and-trampled-on-heart will just have to keep on beating.
Until then, my fragile, vulnerable and prone-to-be-easily-ripped-torn-apart-and-trampled-on-heart will just have to keep on beating.
No heart stays untorn, no soul undamaged, no smile unblemished and yet...
ReplyDeleteThrough all the pain you have suffered your rapturous spirit continues to fly, Your untamed passion and verve for life could light up the darkest sky. And you are loved and adored by many.
Your defense against the onslaught is your goodness and your extraordinary talent to see colours and visions others only see in their dreams.
If only you could love yourself as easily as others love you. I would give you self-belief it was mine to give...
But know this... I am with you on your journey: advising, nurturing, caring and yes... loving.
You will find me 'between the lines'... always.
Why the lookingglass? Because sometimes sweet dreamer all you really need to do is look at your reflection. Look real close... You are the light of the world.
The pain I suffered. I've been told that I 'feel' more than others--and that it is both a gift and a curse in your life. It's a wild animal but tame it and I could possibly reach even higher than before.
ReplyDeleteThank you for speaking of me and describing of me in such ways. If only I could admire myself the way you write about me, my self-confidence would be higher.
It will take time, I believe. But I might just reach that place one day.
For you Dreamer... To take with you on your journey
ReplyDeleteThe China Doll – Part one
He was the embodiment of the wildest thoughts she had ever had, a turbulent wind that had blown through her uncluttered but sterile life, forever rearranging the furniture of both her body and soul. His sudden loss and departure still sat like a dense stone in the pit of her stomach, and though part of her hated him for introducing her to the pain of the slow bleeding sorrow that is heartbreak, she also knew that without his dexterity - Oh those hands! - and skilled puppetry, her strings would never have been cut.
Before she had met him she had become well practiced in the art of familial deception. To survive the incarceration of her childhood she had learnt to play the role of dutiful daughter (combined with the occasional moments of uncontrolled petulance) and she did so with the same ease and lack of thought as the loyal dog that never fails to return the thrown stick of his master.
She had developed a series of well-practiced expressions tailor-made for her parents, extended family and the limited number of friends they had seen fit to let into her cosseted existence.
For her father she mostly wore the mask of deference, unquestioning and emotionless but with the occasional solitary tear painted ‘neath one eye. For her relatives she needed a range of masks as they were a strange bunch much given to bouts of prolonged melancholy counterbalanced with hedonistic jollity that fell just a few degrees south of mania and all out madness. They were her biggest audience and when under the spotlight of their collective gaze, she always felt like a leading actress on the opening night of a Broadway play.
When they talked about her maternal beauty as if she was Mary Magdalene herself, she wore the smile of Benediction. For the most dramatic scenes she chose the supine weeping woman and she listened with great sadness as they lamented their regrets, talked about their fears of dying and her personal favourite, the unwavering anxiety they all felt when they commented on how ‘she’ seemed so withdrawn and yet they sensed a worrying undercurrent of wildness…
For her mother she wore the two-sided Shakespearean mask. On one side was the look of deep love and empathy, and on the other side, utter contempt...
How she longed to show someone what existed beneath these facades, but she had spent so much time hidden, that there were moments she doubted whether she had a face at all…
He was the first to see her as she really was – as she wanted to be. He could turn on the glint she never knew existed beneath the darkness of her eyes
... and it would be he who would first seen the flushed expression of her intense release – la petite mort…
Absolutely breathtaking. Thank you so much.
ReplyDeleteIn just a few paragraphs, you have summarized my life. You obviously either can truly understand me through my writing or that you are someone who is actually quite close to me.
Either way, thank you for your beautiful words. This made my day.
i love this; i like to think that my heart's made of something a teeny bit sturdier. like, tin foil. :)
ReplyDeleteand also, lookingglass, that was amazing!