I have come to realize that everyone has been unfortunate enough to have had their hearts tortured at least once... and as for the ones who haven't... well I don't like them. They're so strange... and happy... I don't like those people.
They couldn't begin to understand what heartache feels like... and I don't just mean a lover's pain.
A heart can be wrung by one's own family and friends. A pet's death could do the same... But those people who have never experienced any pain are so strange. They make me unbelievably uncomfortable.
They pity me.
Why? I can't make use of their pity.
With the exception of those few strange people, all the others have their own deeply buried bruises and gashes... As time passes... The hurt heals enough to be discussed sans emotion, but if the tormentor returns, they needn't even so much as breathe to rip open the old wounds...
A good song can gently prod at the deepest stashed hurt, generate misty eyes and a few misplaced tears... An even better song will create the same effect without the realization of why it hurts... But nothing will have the same effect as the return of the Tormentor.
The death of a loved one creates the deepest hurt, with scattered scratches inside the ragged cuts, within the torn gashes, which cover the entire surface of twisted, mutilated mass that was once labeled as a heart. Of course, this... thing... may never heal... I wouldn't know because I fortunately have been spared from that form of attack to the heart...
But people do move on....
Their hearts are resilient, and they reconstruct a new one...
Some are reconstructed weakly... These people don't last very long. Others are reconstructed with the extra strength to withstand a second blow... These find it difficult to love again. Still, others will use the help of another heart, or more, to become reconstructed just as before.
I have given my heart in such a way to someone in need, with no regrets, because he is now healing, and my heart is still the same as it was before... I have had a heartache. I suppose that in a disgustingly twisted way, I am greatful for having had the experience, because I would rather be as I am now, than be among the strangely ecstatic...
Somehow, though, I do believe that I could have made do solely with the hurt that my family brings. Most of us have family issues which make us "normal" in my definition...Maybe we all just need an excuse to harbor poison within our hearts...
Our Tormentors are none other than ourselves, and we need something external on which to place the blame...
Anyway, there are certain people that I would like to share my hurt with... But I find no reason to do so. I sit quietly, patiently, waiting for anyone to reveal themselves to me so that I may show them the gaping hole that was seared so deeply into my heart, still dripping sticky flesh from a lack of closure...
Oh how cruel one's Tormentor can be...
And yet I thank him.
I suppose that I do thank him for giving me such awesome material to work with, for enlightening me to a whole new subject of art, and therefore improving me as a whole... But everything about it is twisted.
I am, in effect, thanking him for ruining me as I once knew myself... I hold such contempt towards him for doing so.
Possibly one of my largest fears is the possibility of his return...
But this is all aside from the point.
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