Inimi frante/ Broken hearts

Problema cea mai mare cand vorbim de inimi frante nu e durerea nimicitoare, care te face sa iti doresti sa iti scoti inlauntrul la lumina, sa il speli, peticesti, usuci si sa-l indesi sifonat inapoi. Durerea trece, e parte din viata si cumva stim cu totii ca e normal sa apara din cand in cand. Problema cea mai mare este ca o inima franta devine parte din tine, te urmareste peste tot, iar senzatia aia, de franjuri de carne sfasiata, sangeranda, care se zbat in vant, creeaza dependenta, o placere bolnava, amara, astfel incat cei care au ajuns, la un moment dat al vietii, sa fie posesorii unei astfel de inimi, nu vor mai fi aceiasi niciodata.

E culmea cum o maladie asa de veche si de hidoasa e la fel de actuala si ataca la fel de violent, in timp ce ne concentram mai mult pe gasirea de leacuri eficiente contra intepaturilor de tantari.

O inima franta te face brusc matur, te trezeste din visare, te palmuieste ca ai fost naiv, te obliga sa vezi uratul din lume si sa accepti uratul din sufletul propriu. Si cand, intr-un final, sangerarea s-a oprit, cicatricea e atat de hidoasa incat te intrebi daca vreodata cineva isi va mai putea dori sa iubeasca aceeasi inima, pentru ca apoi sa o calce in picioare.

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The biggest problem when we talk about broken hearts is not the wrenching pain that makes you want to pull your insides out into the light, wash, patch, dry and wring them out. Pain passes, it's part of life and somehow we all know that it's normal to occur from time to time. The bigger problem is that a broken heart becomes part of you, it follows you everywhere, and that feeling, of torn, bleeding, flesh flailing in the wind, is addictive, a sick, bitter pleasure, so that those who have come, at some point in life, to be the possessor of such a heart, will never be the same again.

It's funny how such an old and hideous disease is just as current and attacks just as violently, while we concentrate more on finding effective cures for mosquito bites.

A broken heart makes you suddenly mature, wakes you from your reverie, slaps you for being naive, forces you to see the ugliness in the world and accept the ugliness in your own soul. And when, finally, the bleeding has stopped, the scar is so hideous that you wonder if anyone will ever want to love the same heart again, only to trample it underfoot.