How Frail, the Human Heart Must Be!

I thought that I could not be hurt;
I thought that I must surely be
impervious to suffering-
immune to pain
or agony.

My world was warm with April sun
my thoughts were spangled green and gold;
my soul filled up with joy, yet
felt the sharp, sweet pain that only joy
can hold.

My spirit soared above the gulls
that, swooping breathlessly so high
o'erhead, now seem to to brush their whir-
ring wings against the blue roof of
the sky.

(How frail the human heart must be-
a throbbing pulse, a trembling thing-
a fragile, shining instrument
of crystal, which can either weep,
or sing.)

Then, suddenly my world turned gray,
and darkness wiped aside my joy.
A dull and aching void was left
where careless hands had reached out to
destroy

my silver web of happiness.
The hands then stopped in wonderment,
for, loving me, they wept to see
the tattered ruins of my firma-
ment

(How frail the human heart must be-
a mirrored pool of thought. So deep
and tremulous an instrument
of glass that it can either sing,
or weep).

Syvlia Plath, I Thought That I Could Not Be Hurt

12/9/2014

I am sad again. I am sad, I am morose, and it is hard for me to be alone with my somber, melancholy thoughts. Life is hard and complicated, and it simply overwhelms me sometimes with the sheer weight of it all - the sheer weight of what is put on the small shoulders of small people like you and I.

And I am happy, but the sadness is there, bleeding into the frayed, grey edges of my tired heart. It takes the colour of life and makes it that less vibrant.

I am tired, I am tired, and still my heart beats on, still it does, and still it will, no matter what life throws at me and what happens.

I want to be happy, but there is so many things right now that prevent that, that weigh on my and burden me, trouble my thoughts and make it hard to sleep at night. I am a ghost in my own head - an occupant, haunted by the troubled thoughts that rule it and are there.

Maybe I should take more walks. I know I should pray more. God is there, and he is waiting for me. Sometimes I just get frustrated, I don't feel like he has any answers for me, and there is no one to tell me what to do. So I push everything away, and live in the echoing, vast space that is my head - my own worst enemy, sometimes.

Sadness and I are not strangers. No one is a stranger to sadness, I think, nor can they be. We all have different ways of dealing with it. I relish in my freedom - in productivity - in staying busy, and doing all I can with my mind and hands and body. I value the ability to do those things highly. I wished that it worked all of the time, but sometimes I simply feel dull and drowned. Can I beat this? Oh, I'm sure, I can. I will be fine again in a few days. I have learned myself well enough over the years to know that sometimes we just have sad days. And you need a day or two - or three or four - to mope and wet your eyes a little and then wake up one morning and find that things are OK again. Not perfect, but okay. Okay. You cling to that word inside your head, and pull yourself upright again. The world is happy again. This is the wax and wane of life, the give and take, the way you cope with the broken and beautiful little and big things.
(Or you're just mad, and go ricocheting in between - )
This is how I cope, anyways. Sometimes I hate sharing things like this because I feel very vulnerable - but writing is also a sense of catharsis for me, and I need it to vent and open up, and get things off my chest. Sometimes, vulnerability is a good thing. Who knows. Maybe you find you identify?