Thirty-four

Heart breaks slowly over the course of years.

Then it catches its breath for a month or so, gathers itself for a bit.

Afterward, it begins breaking again.

Eons ago, I was a narcissist. 

I loved myself, because nobody else would, apparently.

Went in deep into the trenches of my soul, scooped out love-stanzas, poetry, wild-lotuses, memories of things that weren't even there, built wind-palaces inside my head, and what-not.

It felt like the time of times - exploring day in and day out - what pictures to paste on the imaginary wall inside my head - like it was some unruly teenager's room - and what to discard.

Sometime later, this narcissism, felt misplaced - rather selfish - un-adult like; so I began to give it up. Without properly answering the question - so who would love me now?

More years went by, the subtle exhaustion of life kicked in. Searching for love, the ludicrous idea of holding on to a job, the gain and loss of weight, the ageing of everyone around - while I somewhat childishly stuck to a constant in time, refusing to get older - although the signs showed up shamelessly - the sagging of flesh, the visibility of veins, the graying of more and more strands of hair, the darkening under eyes.

But I aged, so swiftly sometimes, it took me by surprise. For months in between, I entirely abandoned myself - functioning like a pre-programmed robot - running from one task to the next, being carried from one day to the next with the gargantuan force of an invisible paranoia - I tried to be myself on some Saturday nights - but couldn't. 

Then one day - I realized - I had finally shed all that obsessive narcissism for myself. For better or for worse or for both.

Now all I have for myself is empathy - enormous amounts of it - I weigh things quite differently. I am of course a bit crazy. Perhaps more than just a 'bit'. But okay. But, okay.

This slow, decay of narcissism has been a big part of growing up - in becoming the person I am. My heart too has broken along-with.

But clearly, some parts of it are still intact- from that morose period of years ago. Because on some rare Saturday mornings, I still slouch down to write - things like these.