How heart-broken one could be ?

What is a broken-heart ? And, what does it feel like to have a broken -heart ?

The broken -heart here is not just the one   with scars and bruises all over its surface. The broken – heart here is a little ugly heart -shaped  solid, covered by vestige of pain and cracked a little and a little more every day by the existence of resentment, jealousy . When you possess a broken heart , it will be just like that feeling when you see your favorite friend taken away by your enemy , when you see all your plans suddenly fall apart, when you look up in to the sky and see nothing , hope nothing and wish to silently disappear into that eternal blue , into that far-away horizon, when you witness your expectations fail gradually, when you look into the mirror to find nothing but a blank , pale face and ask yourself where that old smile has gone , when you put your hands onto your chest and feel something missing , and when you ask yourself the question ” Will I ever have a happy ending ?”

Then , to what extent can a heart be broken ?

When you were a child , you lived your life with absolutely no worries about tomorrow , about next week ,or your life to come. You lived for today , loved for today , built up your expectations for today and sooner or later you would be drawn into another the fields of more intriguing dreams. You may spend your childhood mostly indoors , with all the stories magically told by your parents ,your grandparents , or you could just go out and scream with your utmost voice ,be the captain of your own awkwardly embellished ships , be the princess in your brick castles ,and told your very own stories  to the world. You might be hit by your parents, get scolded for being childish ( although that was how a child should be ) , or even sometimes become isolated by your friends just because of minor conflicts over a toy , or over the rules upon which a game should be played. But , all the same, you lived your life the way you think it should be . You had every right to lose yourself in a sea of dreams , to dive into every deepest root of what you reckoned as mystery , and then came back to land just as invigorating as you could ever be. You were simply audacious ( except for fear of the dark, the evil spirits , or Mr.bugaboo )

Then , one day you find yourself growing up , long gone from that image of a child with the most stupid yet naive and genuine smile. Some day you will even preposterously wonder who was the one to leave first , you or your childhood ? You now can just look back  to your children games with a sense of deep nostalgia , or some with condescension. You’re not allowed ( according to the official rules of the Ministry of Adulthood) to do what you once considered a norm of life , or else you will end up being the only  weird guy/ girl in this world. And from that very day when you set your heart on leaving your childhood behind , your heart started to break a little. You now can still fantasize, still wish , still dream, but dreams now must be achieved, goals must be finished , or else you are then a loser. At this point , your heart breaks a little more. After wishes and expectations, there comes the family of hatred , resentment , mean and jealousy. These cooperate with each other and propel you to obliviously hurt you own heart, making it ugly and excluding all that innocence of a little child out of your head. You begin to hate , to gossip , to try your best to equal those whose happiness and success you strongly begrudge . Your heart, ironically , is no longer yours anymore. It belongs to speculation , to others’ ideas and opinions, to the thing that you were afraid of the most as a child – evil spirit, which is now created wholly  by you but not by any wicks ,monsters or cruel queens.

The day when you look around at every of your friend , at your parents ,at everything you can possibly look at and ask the question :” what about me ?” , then , your heart might have transcended the edge of what a heart can ever endure. You look up an see tears strolling down your face ,you look down and see your feet fixed to the ground, while you just want gravity to disappear so you can fly away from this confined environment. You look to the right ,to the left and tremble because of the extreme loneliness those eyes can make you feel , because of the dilapidated state you has turned your soul into. The mirror now gives the reflection of one solitary and desperate person .

Yes , your heart is now broken , to pieces.




My dreams are like leaves on the trees at the very end of autumn, fragile yet lingering in my mind like the sound of the rustling of  dry leaves diffused into the atmosphere by cold wind .

My dreams are like rocks under the flow of a small stream in the woods. They are eroded by time , by the currents of the stream, yet never truly disappeared from one’s sight. They stayed there , silently without any desire to be fulfilled.

My dreams are like the sudden rains of the summer. They  came quickly without any advance warning to theirs possessor; however, they would go just at fast, leaving behind an ethereal vestige of theirs existence and a very vague sense of nostalgia, or regret.

When autumn has gone , my dreams would follow its step. When the currents of that small stream tries to deny the existence of the rocks, my dreams ostensibly yield to that quest. When the summer takes all the rains away , my dreams also hide itself under forms of tiny water-drops and make an peremptory resistance to be seen.

And for my part , in the autumn ,let  imagine myself as the old man searching in vain for the hints of the autumn of the old times, when his wish to be absorbed into the special setting of the fall was blindfolded by his puerile youth and perpetual presumptuousness . The dreams had always persisted in my heart, yet they were surpassed by the sophomoric attitude and inability to recognize what I had in front of me , to choose which roads to go among the numerous roads presented .

In the jungle , let imagine myself as one solitary nomad wandering around without any specific destination,  wishing to remain at no place forever and consistently embarking on his seemingly interminable journey of life. He once stopped near that small stream , but wasn’t  punctilious and empathetic enough to take notice of the rocks beneath the water surface. I searched for my dreams wherever I went, and asked whoever I met if they happened to know the place where I hid the box of my dreams . But I never knew that they , the dreams , had always been there; They stayed so small , so infinitesimal that I missed them and went on to search for something bigger , something I considered more worthy of attention.

They said: ” dreams make up one’s life .”

I said : ” regret makes up my life instead.” Sometimes I wonder when I will escape from that prison  of excessive procrastination continuous complaints, when I will let the sun shine on that dark, timid corner where my dreams are carefully placed.