The Diary Of A Broken Heart

Me, Myself and I

People often get lost for words when told to define themselves and I often wonder what I'd do if ever confronted with such a situation. Surprisingly, it's myself who really wants to know who I am, for during all these years, the more people I've met, I've somehow lost track of my own identity.

3:34 in the morning and I all can ever do is weep in the deadly silence of the nigh. I don't really know what makes my heart ache so much. Or maybe it's just too many things and I can't decide which one is it tonight. Most of these, however, revolve around one common feeling: solitude.

I've been a deep person all these years. Many people often find it difficult to extort from me what I will to bury deep down in a chapter of my bosom, but the people, they did it without an effort. It's not often that open up like a book in front of people, but in front of him, my scars stood naked. What I shared with him is something I shan't share with you, but what I'll share with you is something I never knew of myself.

The 3 am version of people is something to marvel upon at times. Vulnerable, honest and completely themselves, as most people have observed. And that's why I often wondered why he found me gorgeous with all those scars and freckles. I believed it, for as said, people are honest about what they say and somehow, I was too. But now I realise that all of this was mere foolery, for it turned out as expected: a white lie. Believing in forevers is the most beautiful thing one can do perhaps, but one thing should always be borne in mind: every person has their own forever. However, most of us realise this when our forever does not last forever, just like any other thing.

Trusting someone with my heart was the worst mistake I've possibly ever made. And I'm sure I'm not sailing in this stormy sea alone. Everyone has gotten their heart broken once, at least. And if you haven't, then you are the one who probably breaks them. Some people, they promise to stay in our lives for forever, and since everyone defines forever in their own way, they leave when their's is over and we stand there watching them depart as we are falling apart, begging someone to hold us together. No one pays heed, and that's when strength returns to its master, even though it masters us, but still. I was left broken too, after unexplained and expected, yet so unbelievable departures.

Tears and memories are a free late night package that is delivered without request at 2:14 am, forcing us to request ourselves to be strong. Whiskey and cigarettes are just a way adopted to forget that someone, but you and I both know, they taste just like their lips on a misty Friday night. We fall into a series of flashbacks, and moments that once made us believe in the fact it could all be perfect now make us regret why we ever believed it. A part of us breaks, doesn't it? It's just too difficult to hold in those tears and all we can do is try, because trying is the perhaps the only thing that's better than crying about crying. We need someone to vent in front of, and that reminds us of how we used to call them up at 4 in the morning to talk about the nightmare in which we lost them. They used to say, "Nightmares don't come true" and now we wonder, were they lying? Because somehow that nightmare has turned into a reality bitterer than black coffee. Some people love black coffee, and some, like them, love hurting others over and over again. And some are like us: the fools, allowing ourselves to be stabbed repeatedly just because we love the one holding the knife.

I am just like the way we all are: a little broken. Because people who read are certainly not the ones who read or write. Instead, they are the ones we write about. Because you and I have no one to listen to. And that's why we bleed ink.

I'm not sure if you can trust me with your secrets or I can trust you with mine, because each time we trusted someone, they gave us every reason not to. All I need to tell you is that you are strong. You are brave. This is not a lie, because sitting in a room full of people and listening to something that tears up apart but you keep a smile on your face, that isn't easy. That shit isn't fucking easy. You have looked at your tears in the mirror and smiled at your scars. You are brave. You survived when every single person who promised to stay, left. You survived. You are a damaged person, and damaged people are dangerous because they know they can survive. But let me tell you: survival is temporary. You need to live. And that's something I can't tell you to do, because somehow I can't find a way to live myself.