DISCLAIMER: An aborted romantic tryst is not the only way to get your heart broken. Like skinning a kitten, there are many ways to break your heart.
My heart is broken. It doesn’t really matter who broke it, or the circumstances surrounding the injuries sustained by my vascular organ. These things have been discussed thoroughly and extensively in several post-mortems with S. and A.
I also won’t get into the sadness or the hollowness one feels as a result of getting hurt this way. Volumes of sonnets have been written about this. I think one of every four songs was composed during this state of mind.
And then there’s the recovery process. Won’t talk about that either. It’s different for everybody. My process involves copious amounts of alcohol and several disjointed journal entries.
What I do want to express is the helplessness. No, not a kawawa helplessness, puh-lease. I’m talking about the incapacity to alter the current state of affairs. The simple truth is that things are not in my hands. I gave it a shot, but life being the way it is, things did not turn out the way I wanted them to. I can’t do anything to change that.
And when I get that little nugget of truth into my little nugget of a brain, I’ll stop gnawing at the past with my “what ifs” and “what could have beens”.
Because that, I can do.
No comments:
Post a Comment