I see them everywhere in shards...who picks up the pieces once they're broken?
Have you ever heard the story of the little girl and the old lady?
Briefly, one evening walking home, along the river, the little girl meets the old lady sitting alone. The girl goes and sits with her for a while. The girl compares the shape of her heart to that of the old lady. The old lady’s heart is scarred and tattered; the old lady tells the little girl that it’s so because of the love and experiences she had gone through in her life. In the end, the little girl tore a piece of her own heart and stuffed the hole produced with a piece of the old lady’s heart. Wonderful story, But the old lady forgot to tell the little girl about the pain and the suffering that came together…
…He walks slowly along the winding cliff road and through the torrential rain. The only thing separating him from the drop down to the cliff is the flimsy metal erected along the edge. His iPod was playing songs about the heart, making him feel even more painful. The phrase “like a knife stabbing” couldn’t be more accurate in describing it. Clutching his chest, he looks down at the place where his hand gripped, only to see a spot of red slowly growing bigger and bigger on his white shirt. It didn’t take long before a hole forms in the centre of his chest. Out drops his heart, except it isn’t the bloody pumping flesh and blood variety. This heart was made of glass and it’s cracked; split into several pieces. Within each piece, a reflection of different person can be seen, but he can’t make out who is who. All he could do instead is cry as he sees each of them being reflected in the glass. Slowly, he tilts his hand and lets the glass heart slip, as tears stream down his cheeks…
…the car didn’t see the lone figure standing in front of it. The roaring of the engine could be heard together with what seemed like a wail of despair. The flimsy metal flings out as he goes airborne…
…the glass of water slips from her hand, shattering into numerous pieces on the ground. Feelings of guilt, sadness, and loss sweep over her. A single tear drop forms at the corner of her eye. Wiping the tear away and shrugging the momentary feelings, she crawls back to the bed. She will wake up early the next day, sweep the broken glass and throw it into the dustbin. It is, after all, just glass.
