You were born to break hearts.
Someone said that to me once. You were born to break hearts.
I laughed at him, at the time. People weren’t born to do anything, I had thought. I’m not sure I find it very funny, now.
What if I was, though? Born to beak hearts. Do you think you were born to do something? I don’t mean born to cure cancer or fight a war, but something else. It’s who you are, not something accomplished. Well, I was.
I was born to break hearts. It’s really the only thing I’m any good at. I can’t run very far or write software programs. I can’t make eggs or correctly use the television remote. I can be intriguing and encompassing and giving. For a little while. For just long enough. Long enough to break something.
I was born to break hearts. I want you to know that doesn’t exclude my own. I break mine in beautiful synchronicity with all of the others. I want you to know that. They’re not alone in this. I’m not either. No one is alone.
Do you remember being a child? Do you remember when you saw something so lovely and fragile and you held it in your hands? You marveled at it and turned it over and over and over and then all of the sudden it was gone and there was glass in your hands. There was all this empty glass. It was whole and then it was gone and there was all this glass and it could cut you, be careful. Did you ever do that?