Pain is lost on the dead

We are born with our hearts in this funny state, this state of needing to be broken. Waiting to be broken.

Maybe that just means we are born with our hearts in this state of needing to be loved. Waiting to be loved.

Love breaks things, have you noticed? If you let it in, it takes your heart as it is and breaks it down, fracture by fracture, crack by crack, until a small action creates an avalanche and you are forced to assess the change that took place while you hardly noticed. Love builds new rooms to be occupied without asking you for your opinion or your timeline or your plans. It knocks out walls and shoves out reason to make a place for fecundity. To make place for really being alive. A state that tends to be strangled out by logic and fear-induced busyness. 

Fear. I used to think it was the antithesis of courage. I have lately wondered if it is the antithesis of love. It can paralyze and retard any kind of change for the sake of preservation. Preservation of the heart, an odd idea. Something made to be broken can not also be made to be preserved. So we choose, against the nature we were born into, or for it. Rush headlong, or resist. But I have a sneaking suspicion that in order for the heart to be found, it first must be lost.