pyronus
09/25/08, 05:30 PM
the following is a story i felt compelled to write for a friend who's going through some heartbreak and wont let go of her former love (and hasn't for some time now)
I want it to be a very good piece when I send it and so I have brought it here for editing and criticism.
based on true stories
It shattered, leaving but one shard of any significance, smooth as any piece of pottery on one side, but sharp as a katana on the others. The shape was of a heart, and it was beautiful. When I retrieved the fragment from the shadow to where it fell, it cut my hand, lightly, and it was learnt that the heart must be handled with care, or scars would remain.
Few days later the one whom the heart represented left, to never return. No longer able to hold her heart in my hands, but to only grasp the cold heart of stone that was left behind, I could only dwell on this small piece of her, this symbol that was my life. To her I sent every ounce of love I possessed, only hoping that maybe, just maybe, she would see it, and take the beautiful gift I had given her.
But, alas, when everything I had was given, my entire life in her hands, she did nothing, ignored my plea, and all I could do was pray, pray to the lord that he would fulfill his plan and bring my true love to me. He never told her to come to me, to love me, and I was saddened, nay, depressed, that he would forsake me, not give me what he had shown me, not give me my life.
For months I was angry at god (oh how love had confused me), and the heart that I could not release was in my hands, when people told me to let go, I only held on tighter, and the bladed edges sliced my hand, tighter, and tighter, deeper and deeper, cutting to my bone.
I was at a loss to know from where the pain was coming until god revealed to me that there was another who needed me more than I knew. I saw her plight, oh so similar to mine, yet so different. I held the heart, my heart as I called it, in one hand, and pointed a finger with the other, stating that her obsession was killing her. She held up her heart, soaked with her blood, to me, and told me plainly that holding it was all that was keeping her alive. I then felt my dead heart beat, and I felt it from my chest, and astounded I looked to where I had thought my heart was, and saw instead an unrecognizable mass, dripping crimson wherever I traveled, obvious to any eyes able to see it. My true heart beat again, and I saw that at the center of that lump of flesh there was a heart of stone, never beating, or giving life, but only seeping the heat from its surroundings, stealing it away, yet not passing that heat, that life, to the one it symbolized.
I then saw what I was truly doing. I witnessed that which could only be described as a miracle as I peeled my fingers away and the pain was relieved, and after I pulled the heart from my palm, I heard my heart beat, and again, until it held the solid rhythm I once knew, but had forgotten. I then saw, still there, a girl holding not her heart, but a heart of bladed edges, that appeared almost to be a twin of my own, and I knew that I must go to show her that her pain was but a waste.
I walked to her, and she shoved me away with her good arm, but with both my hands, including my newly freed hand, and with the knowledge that god had given me, I continued to walk forward. After much walking and shoving, the one arm she possesed eventually grew tired, and I managed to take a hold of her mangled extremity, and bring it to her attention, but the heart was so deeply held that she could not see it. To my chagrin she saw only her hand, mangled, and slipped to a morose state that I hoped to never see another human in so long as I lived. She "holds her heart to her chest, begging for him to take it from her" and I can only stand hoping that she will not hold the heart too close to her chest, that the heart will cut through her torso like it has her hand, and that the heart of bladed edges will meet the heart of no edges, and tear it apart.
I want it to be a very good piece when I send it and so I have brought it here for editing and criticism.
based on true stories
It shattered, leaving but one shard of any significance, smooth as any piece of pottery on one side, but sharp as a katana on the others. The shape was of a heart, and it was beautiful. When I retrieved the fragment from the shadow to where it fell, it cut my hand, lightly, and it was learnt that the heart must be handled with care, or scars would remain.
Few days later the one whom the heart represented left, to never return. No longer able to hold her heart in my hands, but to only grasp the cold heart of stone that was left behind, I could only dwell on this small piece of her, this symbol that was my life. To her I sent every ounce of love I possessed, only hoping that maybe, just maybe, she would see it, and take the beautiful gift I had given her.
But, alas, when everything I had was given, my entire life in her hands, she did nothing, ignored my plea, and all I could do was pray, pray to the lord that he would fulfill his plan and bring my true love to me. He never told her to come to me, to love me, and I was saddened, nay, depressed, that he would forsake me, not give me what he had shown me, not give me my life.
For months I was angry at god (oh how love had confused me), and the heart that I could not release was in my hands, when people told me to let go, I only held on tighter, and the bladed edges sliced my hand, tighter, and tighter, deeper and deeper, cutting to my bone.
I was at a loss to know from where the pain was coming until god revealed to me that there was another who needed me more than I knew. I saw her plight, oh so similar to mine, yet so different. I held the heart, my heart as I called it, in one hand, and pointed a finger with the other, stating that her obsession was killing her. She held up her heart, soaked with her blood, to me, and told me plainly that holding it was all that was keeping her alive. I then felt my dead heart beat, and I felt it from my chest, and astounded I looked to where I had thought my heart was, and saw instead an unrecognizable mass, dripping crimson wherever I traveled, obvious to any eyes able to see it. My true heart beat again, and I saw that at the center of that lump of flesh there was a heart of stone, never beating, or giving life, but only seeping the heat from its surroundings, stealing it away, yet not passing that heat, that life, to the one it symbolized.
I then saw what I was truly doing. I witnessed that which could only be described as a miracle as I peeled my fingers away and the pain was relieved, and after I pulled the heart from my palm, I heard my heart beat, and again, until it held the solid rhythm I once knew, but had forgotten. I then saw, still there, a girl holding not her heart, but a heart of bladed edges, that appeared almost to be a twin of my own, and I knew that I must go to show her that her pain was but a waste.
I walked to her, and she shoved me away with her good arm, but with both my hands, including my newly freed hand, and with the knowledge that god had given me, I continued to walk forward. After much walking and shoving, the one arm she possesed eventually grew tired, and I managed to take a hold of her mangled extremity, and bring it to her attention, but the heart was so deeply held that she could not see it. To my chagrin she saw only her hand, mangled, and slipped to a morose state that I hoped to never see another human in so long as I lived. She "holds her heart to her chest, begging for him to take it from her" and I can only stand hoping that she will not hold the heart too close to her chest, that the heart will cut through her torso like it has her hand, and that the heart of bladed edges will meet the heart of no edges, and tear it apart.