My Heart is Stone

The overwhelming sadness and desperation that takes takes hold, the urge to just sit and let my tears drain themselves to relieve this burning pressure contained within my eyes; what is it for?

Why, when I feel overcome with grief, do I never have a reason for it? Why this void that cannot be filled?

The yearning to be able to release, to let it all flow from me and take with it this burden that I bear. But then, of course, the moment that I get to myself when I may finally demolish the boundaries of socialization, I cannot.

I try, Oh God, do I try.

My eyes may moisten a touch, but nothing more. Not a single tear drop will be shed. Is it from fear that I hold it all inside? Fear of what? I am alone. There is only me and my thoughts. There is nothing here to judge me, nothing to mock or terrorize. I am finally alone....

This yearning lives in my heart to relieve the emptiness by letting the flood gates loose, breaking down the barred doors and letting my soul free. I want it, I can feel it, the heaving in my chest; and yet, it cannot be touched.

The break walls remain in tact despite the thrashing course of the torrent sea pleading and forcing its way through. The doors remain bolted and barred.

My heart is stone.

It is as if it once were a tree, magnificent and majestic. A beautiful, tall, thriving red wood. Until a simpleton with an axe decided to render it of its beauty for one small sprig, and felled it. The wood now petrified and hard as stone remembers its beauty, its life and vivaciousness, its longing to grow and yearning for further endeavors. 

It is still.

It beats no longer.

My heart is but a mere portrait of what it was and now it has no more than memories. Base, cruel, taunting memories. It shall not be the same. It is forever changed by the actions of one small man with one small axe. Here is your proof that size is of no matter. 

Even the smallest of men with the smallest of tools can make the largest impact on a life, a soul, a raging and fiery beauty of which most men stand in awe. All it takes is one small cut to bleed the whole thing dry. One small cut to bring it to the ground, to have it begging on its knees for what life it has left. Forever hungry, forever thirsty, forever wishing and wallowing, just waiting for the day it might be whole again.

But things will never be as they were.