I used to think there was some beauty to be broken, like a tortured soul made me more interesting, more mysterious, more deep. I used to think the melancholic musician who’d stare off into a different world as his fingers idly pulled at strings on his worn out guitar somehow knew more than the rest of us. Like the pain he’d suffered was something to admire, maybe he had it all figured out. I always believed that part of the charm to being a ‘writer’ was everyone believing I have dark, heartbreaking stories to tell; pain was the clutch, the decision maker, part of the lure. Darkness is sexy, beautiful, inspiring.
But it’s not. Pain is crap. It is not poetic, it does not lead you down meaningful paths that will teach you about the cruelness of the world. No, instead it will eat you up, tear you down, rip you apart.
Pain is ugly, is scary, is a nightmare, is poison.
Being broken is not beautiful, please believe that.
I spend so much of my life inside the cages of my mind, trapped behind bars, shaking them, thrashing my head against the walls I’ve built around my heart. I am never fully present, never totally consumed by happiness, never in the moment. I don’t know how to be. I’m only ever be 95% active in my life, the other 5% happens in my head. I have this annoying way of over-analysing and second guessing and waiting for the next storm to break.
Happiness is never completely mine; I need something to shatter the pretty picture I’m only half living in.
The paint is always a little smudged, the colour always running off the page, nothing is ever quite perfect. I almost crave the pain, it’s like I’m wired that way.
I’m always waiting for my heart to be broken, to be lied to, to have my entire world fall apart around me. I lock up pain, store it away and then drown myself in it when darkness comes.
Maybe happiness is not for me. Maybe a freedom from my thoughts is not the life I want, not really. Because to accept that, to want it, to demand it, would mean I believe I deserve it.
Do I? I’m not sure, not entirely. But I know this: being broken only leads to the cracks in everything around me. I am causing the destruction of my own life. I am manifesting a broken world, a fractured heart, a shattered dream. Beauty is in happiness, in those moments where you look into the eyes of another feel harmony in your soul.
Being broken is, well, it’s broken.