There is nothing quite like lying awake from 2-8am that makes you feel like a nocturnal creature. A moody nocturnal creature.
This week has already had its share of great highs and lows, and its only Tuesday morning. If the rest of the week proves to be this excellent an emotional roller coaster, magic mountain would be proud, and I’m not sure I’ll get through it without hurling.
When you decide to love someone, in any capacity, you are essentially handing them your heart, trusting that although they can drop it, and shattering it in the process, they won’t. But people do- friends, lovers, family, ourselves even! -over and over again. Since the heart itself cannot be reinforced to prevent intentional, and unintentional breaking, you put it in a box. Then another, and another, each box increasing in its strength and durability. If you’re not careful, soon your heart will resemble a Russian nesting doll made of excuses and hurt- so much so that your heart can become very hard to relocate, buried underneath all this crap. You do this to guard and protect that fragile thing because whether the broken heart manifested itself in a dull physical ache that you can’t seem to alleviate, or a sleepless night spent making your pillow a tear rag, it hurts. And human beings, well, we are designed to run as far away from pain as possible. So box, upon a box, upon a box. Masking tape, duct tape, writings on the boxes that read, “do not open, remember last time?!!!”
But something compels us. Time passes, memories fade, you meet somebody new and layer by layer, you start opening the boxes. “She seems so genuine, he seems so kind.” Another layer, gone, and so on until you see that heart, finally. Then you hand it to them again, knowing full well, the risks. Or so we think – if we actually remembered all the gory, depressing details of a heart break, who among us would be brave enough to try, and try again? I’d like to think I’ll be brave (or stupid, feel free to use whatever description) but I’m not so sure anymore.
The thing is though, why do we even get so broken in the first place? Is it perhaps we place so much of our hearts in their very human hands? If the center is tightly bound to something that does change, shouldn’t we be able to save ourselves from the most debilitating, must-lock-and-seal-my-heart-away kind of pain because large chunks of the heart was occupied by something other than fickle humans?
So in the depth of sadness may my heart learn to say, “Restore unto me, the joy of thy salvation”