Your heart is cold and still. Sometimes I wonder if it is still beating. After all, a little rush of blood should be enough to keep it warm. Has it always been like this, or is it just an act of bravado to keep it from falling apart? It was wise of you to freeze it then.
Your hands are still soft but calloused. How long has it been since you last took care of it? Your fondness for writing your endless thoughts seem to have started taking its toll. That’s all they ever do — write. It has barely touched anything warm, hasn’t it?
Your smile has waned. It does not tell the quiet bliss you used to have. I do not suppose age has been the culprit, but perhaps, the coldness of your heart has dampened the warmth it used to have.
Your eyes have deepened. The thousand sleepless nights have started to reflect on the lackluster gaze you give. Sometimes, you have to let the tears flow to cleanse your vision of a cloudy tomorrow.
Yet despite the hardened lines that contrast against the softness of your face, you appear to be a little bit wiser. Like the flicker of a dying ember, you glow. And amidst the seasonal chaos, you seem somber.
How long has it been since you really felt alive?
Is it really that difficult to admit that you are not as strong as you seem to be? And although solitude is a welcome retreat, we all know that at times the loneliness sets in. And that while it is futile to go against the crowd, you remain afloat and kicking not to be engulfed by them. Strange as it may seem, there is a gnawing fear that eats you up because of the awareness that you seem to have no fear.
Will you let anyone in? It is difficult to wear your heart on a sleeve. But reason tells me that you haven’t even given your heart some air to breathe. It has been years since you let it out in the open. Have you forgotten how good it feels to let it have some space in the open air? Lukewarmness is a clever disguise.
And what is true, if you don’t even trust you?