Writing With A Heartbreak

Yeah, my heart is broken. There’s no way of getting around it. Don’t tell me the cracks will make it bigger, just yet. Don’t tell me time heals all. Because pain knows no time, only endurance. All you know when you’re in pain is that it effing HURTS. Pain, like a crisis of pleasure, is timeless-infinite.

So I’m just…dealing. There’s been a lot of cleaning, a lot of organizing. And writing. I did try writing out what I was feeling, but after an initial dump of anger and agony I figured out that I wasn’t helping myself, I was just driving the knife in deeper. I’ll write to process later.

Besides, I’m under deadline right now. I have a book I have GOT to finish. So each day I sit down, I close my eyes, and I search for the way back into that world, the one I built when I wasn’t broken inside. I dig for each word the way people dig for diamonds. I stop and have crying jags, sometimes. I keep coming back to this mountain I’ve got to climb, this house I have to excavate.

See, the Muse is faithful–if I am. As long as I show up consistently, she’s there. She will never stop trying as long as I don’t. It doesn’t matter if I hit a single ball–as long as I’m swinging, she’s on the mound. She doesn’t care if I hit a home run, a grounder, a foul, or if I whiff it.

No, the Muse cares about the fact that I’ve got the bat and showed up at the stadium. She cares that I’m there. As long as I’m at the plate, bat in hand and hat pulled down, she’s going to feed me those balls. She’s got an infinite supply, for anyone who cares to spend some time at the plate.

If my heart is breaking, if I miss the ball because of the tears clouding my vision, she doesn’t care. If my swing is more like wildly slicing at thin air, it doesn’t matter. The only thing I have to do is not give up. I get suited up and step out of the dugout even if my chest is wide open and flayed for all to see. I stand at that damn plate and I’m going to swing. I’m not sure if I’m saving the Muse or if she’s saving me, and I don’t care.

The only thing I care about is that there will be another ball. That’s the way to mark off the infinite time of pain. Sooner or later I’ll hit one of the balls. In the meantime, it’s good to know that she’s going to keep throwing them. She hasn’t given up on me.

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