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  • Writer's pictureJames Kidac

Broken hearts

Cloud never knew true love. He never knew about the kind of love that wasn't already experienced by the muggles in the sea of muggles. He could love someone, and maybe be loved back, but he never had the type of love where he would give up everything for, his pride, his will, his gut, his life. Well, he would risk his life for anyone honourable and, perhaps, that has, in a way, diluted his sense of importance that would, otherwise, be kept only for the ones who matter more than the others. Love is not a type of control and order humans are comfortable and secure with. It is often as flickering as a dancing ember, meandering as a river valley and fickle as the emotions of an adolescent. Cloud could love a person, such as Tifa, but this kind of love is a mutual intertwine of responsibility, loyalty and friendship. Romance could only pepper a bowl of emotions and the machine that dictates a person's choice. Thus, even as he loved, he felt like he had a broken heart. It was never enough. Was "it" referring to love, sex, marriage, security or anything that mattered to some? No, "it" was just it. There was no definition, no explanation and no elaboration that could really tell us the inner workings of the human experience. I wish I could separate the distractions and important things apart and delete the distractions, but sadly, the organisations that have blended into our daily lives are always associating peripheral wants with "close-to-heart" enablings that matter to us. It's like a utopia strapped on your head to prevent you from wanting anything else, from knowing anything else. The rest of world wrapped around the fingers of the chameleon-like trap may be blissfully unaware of a sinister cycle of becoming, and maybe even good for them, but I do not want to be a part of this world.. Would I let distractions numb me, or do I give love another chance? The yadda continues. An emotionally led James is evidence that broken heart works like a wild bumping pinball but it does continue. The sides are cracked, the heart is bruised and bleeds even as sorrow consumes it bit by bit. But it is still held together by glue that cannot be seen, tape that cannot be touched, love that cannot be measured. Put simply, a walking miracle; a bearer of a broken heart.

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