Silent night, Holy night
Silent night, nothing feels right.
There’s a line, a pivot of sorts for everything that requires a balance. Life with balance = ideal. But that’s hardly the case, is it? For if it was, there’d be no joy, no hurt, no despair to char what would’ve been a well accounted for life. We’d then be reduced into obedient mimes basking for a worth, making sure we have both feet rooted to each side of the line.
We know the line, we know the regulations that come with the line. But our heart refuses to acknowledge what we know, and we constantly topple the balance with every intention desired. We throw ourselves into the brim of an emotional breakdown, exploring every last tear and giggle we are capable of.
We push, we tear through, we break ourselves free of a societal harmony just so we can feel, just so we’d know that we’re real, that every last cut inflicted on our worn out heart was so real. That the worth measured up accordingly.
And yes, I like the hurt. I like the tears, the numbing of the heart. I like the bitterness that I swallow with a mouthful of saliva. I like the dealing part. I like to stop on my feet, close my eyes and hope images of an answer would depict in my mind. I like to watch what was a whole shatter into pieces, just so I could piece them back one by one. I like to know that the scars will stay, I like to listen to the stories the scars have to share. I like to claim the pain and clench them tight in my fist.
Do you?
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