A heart shatters in the quiet of the night. It’s when it all becomes too much and the final feather comes to rest on your beaten heart. The lightest weight becomes too much to bear. A shattered heart is one which has endured more than one thought possible, more than is fair or just, more than any single heart should feel.
A shattered heart tried to take on the world. As a bearer of a formerly shattered heart, it’s hard to describe what it truly feels like. There is no more fight. There is no more anger. Only resignation and acceptance. The harder we try to stick it out and be the better person, the more splinters our hearts become. Unrecognizable to our younger selves because the heart isn’t what it used to be. Pieces have been taken and not given back. Or they’ve been returned in far worse shape than before.
I used to pride myself in the martyrdom of having had a shattered heart, but eventually I saw it hurt me more than it hurt the person who had done it. They had moved on and were busy living their life while I was still nursing old wounds.
A shattered heart weighs a little less than before. There’s something a little unsteady about when it falls for another. It quivers at the thought of letting someone in again. It cowers at the prospect of another traumatic experience. But somehow the heart continues to beat on and persevere. It only takes a spark to bring the heart back onto the edge of falling. The overwhelming belief, contrary to fact and physics, that the heart can fly takes over and it begins again.