Heart-Shaped Hollow

The heart dies a slow death: whomever has been there, feeling like their soul is being peeled off, knows it.
It is not real death either: that would be easier. Instead this takes strength beyond human to withstand without going insane or becoming a demon. And the world is already full of heartless ghouls who once cared too much.
Yet, it can be done. You see, some things must be shattered to pieces as to be repaired beyond their wildest expectations, and God is Japanese in his craft: he likes to fix his broken porcelain with gold. Don't give up just yet, and you will live to see how you are being diamonded out of carbon.
There is this underlying order to the mechanics of the heart: for it to work properly, sometimes you just have to sit down and bear the tantrum of cries and screams. So that is what I did. I listened.
Consider this a warning.
This is the journal of my voyage into the inner unknown, the tempest, with its depth and dark clouds and light winds; with all its mermaids, and all its monsters. This collection of weirdness deals mostly with break ups, with broken things, with just brokenness in general, meat-red raw: it's my account of what it means to be gloriously and tragically human when reason falls back and passion turns against you, and you have to hustle your way through. When living and dying share the same heartbeat in the hollow of your chest. In the best Dionysian spirit, I've added music next to the pictures, here and there, to go with the reading.
To all the silent star-gazers and playlist loners out there, I really believe the world would be a darker place without you. So this one is for all of you who know what it feels to be drowning in the deep waters in an ocean of tears never shed, the ocean within. It is not less a mysterious, dangerous place. And as with all sea things, there is only handful of counsels to give.
Dive at your own peril. Keep an eye around.
Now, follow me: there's a lot to see before dawn.
Take a deep breath.