Some people think their heart has been broken. Maybe they are right. My heart has never been broken. Nothing so melodramatic.
The heart is a stone. And life is the ocean. And over the course of thousands of mornings and afternoons and nights, the tide of life, the ebb and flow of disappointment and expectation erodes the heart, until it hardly resembles a heart at all. It’s a smooth, flat stone; a lozenge of indifference. It remains whole, intact, a miniature version of its former self, a poetic afterthought.
It happens so softy, so slowly, that we hardly notice. There is no moment of truth; no epiphany. There is no fracture, just the inevitable dimming of hope. The featureless surrender to the everyday. It is a small thing; a bored afternoon, a misplaced laugh, an anonymous evening. It is a small thing lost in an ocean.