I want to cry.
I am grieving over an unfinished business, mourning over what has not yet been lost but feels like it has been gone for a long time already.
Indeed, “where do broken hearts go?” With my heart tightened as if a corset were fastened around it, with my fingers aching due to being crossed for ages, I wish for a place that heals, not for a place that further breaks.
Perhaps we are being unkind to our fragile hearts, like being harsh to children born out of and in misery.
May I ask, is there such a thing as a third chance? Or a fourth?
|Ad infinitum et absurdum.|