These words. The same heart.

Nothing is as violent as the sadness inside your heart. The constant, irresolute, the nameless pain which takes all the empty space in your heart. Underneath the surface you are stone. The softness of the falling snow, the gentle words that fly towards you softly courting your ears are unable to move you. You cry. This is not how you wish to be. The icicles are unable to melt on your fingers, the cold air outside cannot send chills down your back. The silent sadness is how you breathe, it is what keeps you alive, it is what breeds inside and allows you to create, to be. You cannot part with it, you do not know how. You cannot stop its growth. Like a malignant tumour that destroys you, like a lifeline of a blood vessel that saves you: this sadness is rooted deeply in you. No surgeon could fix you, no words could unplant it from your fragile heart. It is you.

There is a knot in your stomach and the words are gathering. With each beat they become braver, almost fearless and demand to be released. Obnoxiously confident, they have arrived at the page, clad with bulging hopes and aspirations. Just for a moment, for only a fleeting moment, life quickly escapes them. Then fear is securely locked back where the words came from. Fear of failure. Fear of uselessness. Fear of mediocrity. The crippling sadness is never lifted from your heart, even in instances when it seems to burn. All too quickly the veil, the web-like structure of doubt comes back and like cataract spreads over the seemingly tireless organ. The best trick of your words, but the substance is absent. The meaning lost, important only to a select few.

Take these words, I do not want them. They have caused me false hope, they have fooled me too many times. Smirking they watch me struggle. One after the other, arriving at my fingertips only with laborious work. I do not deserve them, I cannot do justice to their beauty. My heart is hurt, it is incurably sad. Hoping to create substance has only made me turn away from my words. At times I have abandoned them. With each attempt, which each loosely knit kite, words hanging onto each other, they just become ridiculed by their creator. I do not deserve them, they are wasted on such questionable talent. I cry for them, for their successes and failures. I nurture them and fear for their sudden deaths. I bring each and every one of them to life and then proceed to meticulously end them. I have tried to be a better keeper, a less demanding master, a more clear headed creator. I come back to this: this is what I come back to.

If you had more time, maybe you could learn how to heal the heart. You could learn to soften the stone. But never do. Please never banish the sadness. This is what makes the words come to life. This pain sees the most beautiful combinations blossom. For a moment and that is all that life is. If the sadness was lost, the possibility for substance would be lost as well. In every second, in every letter put to a word, in every sentence brining an end to a thought, I want to feel the earth pull at my bones. Pull at them with force, such unashamed force. I want to see, not just feel the end. Know that there is reason and urgency in creation. That these words need to find the page now.

I will keep my sad heart, I will write for me, at times for you. I will eventually learn that we all have the same heart, but for now I revel in mine’s sadness. I will walk the streets and meet strangers, I will write about love lost and found. I will be moved by melody every single day. I will curse my words and bash my ambitions to write. They will never take me to places of contentment. I will learn to surrender, give up. I will let my heart be touched by wonders. I will write for the rain, I will write for the quiet snow falling. For a heart burdened with sadness rain is majestic, but snow is divine. This is how I will live: in treacherous doubt and exceeding worry, gripping fear and the faint hope that this ethereal sadness in my heart teaches and betters me.