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The pieces of a broken heart are more beautiful than the whole.
The pieces of a broken heart are more beautiful than the whole.
A perfect heart, high above all others. Complete in itself, beating with a purpose, beating loud and strong.
I believed that there was good in everything. I believed I was invincible, that I would glide through rough patches and stay focused on my goals.
Other hearts around me were torn, broken and weary and I wanted to fix them. I wanted the beating of my heart to encourage others to beat strongly.
Then one day I met another heart, this heart was worn and broken, but it beat with a purpose stronger than mine and it’s strength gave me hope.
My heart, perfectly healthy and strong wanted to learn and grow from this broken, torn heart. I wanted to build this heart up and encourage it to keep growing.
Then my heart beat too loudly and too proudly and I saw this mended heart break a little. It’s seams stretched and as they stretched I felt my own heart give a little. In trying to beat strong I had weakened another heart. I felt a painful tear across the surface of my beautiful perfect heart, ripping deep into the center of the proud walls I had built up.
My heart was in pieces, and the beat, once so loud and strong was as light as a feather and as quiet as a breath of wind.
Because I could not hear the sound of my heart thundering in my ears I began to notice other sounds, I heard the creak of a heart needing strength from another, I heard the painful rip of a heart having lost someone close to them. I understood the blank faces and the dull eyes staring at me. I was no longer a heart above all others but one among many, a heart as broken and torn as those around me.
I saw the gaps in my heart and I saw the spaces in the hearts around me. And I see now that life is just a lot of broken hearts all trying to find the strength to beat one more time, and one more time agin. Then I looked around and realized the pieces of my heart matched the gaps of other hearts around me. And as I began to fill those gaps, the hearts around me began to fill my spaces with pieces of themselves.
My heart is no longer perfect and full, and the pieces that it now contains, they don’t make a perfect heart the way mine was, but somehow these broken pieces, woven together to bring hearts together and held up strongly by more than one set of hands, this broken and mended heart with all of it’s pieces somehow contains a deeper beauty than that heart sat high above all others. And in it’s broken state it can begin to take pieces of it’s own self and fill the gaps of those around it.
The pieces of a broken heart are more beautiful than the whole.
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