What Am I Made Up Of?

Hello, people.

You're probably reading this either you like reading or you know me, but then it's just a probability.

Maybe, you're here 'cause you think it's both? But, how can it be both, when the occurrence of the second option is impossible for you?

Okay, back to talking to ALL of you, whether you think you know me or not.

The vessel inside my chest, which is supposed to just pump blood, mostly called heart, is full; full of thoughts, full of feelings, be it mine or yours, 'cause, unfortunately, I'm an empath.

Some warm feelings are just below the upper curves of my heart and some icy desires just above the tip of its bottom. And these are the only ingredients which are sorted. The way these two upper curves meet after making the smooth curves at a tip in the bottom, it's beautiful but everything which is beautiful, is painful too. This smooth simple closed curve, which doesn't cover more than the size of my fist, contains miles of land it feels and that too, with the secret tunnels that even I ain't aware of or say, I turn away my eyes from and pretend as if they never were made by those evil burns.

It has some unasked questions, some repeated advices, some to be read and already read books, some to be watched and already watched movies, some to be helped and to be helped more people, some let's-ponder and some oh-bury-these thoughts, some don't-leave-me and please-let-go moments, some somebody-listen-to-this and don't-ask-me secrets and a few sprinkles of what can't be put into words even by authors.

Done with the boundaries of its contents, let's keep other ingredients beneath the surface of my heart for the next time?

And, the things which ain't mine but still causing the constant pain, as the gift for being an empath for next to next time, yes? Yes, thankyou.

This is me, Miss V, typing all this out to sort the contents of this vessel --okay okay heart-- to make a small part of its surface transparent to people, which I too can see through, when lost; to unravel the secrets buried deep; to clarify things to you --okay, to me too-- to melt the glass of innocence, whose existence I ain't sure about; to smooth the surfaces of the high waves inside; to curse the vision which never got cleared enough, especially whenever I needed and maybe, just maybe, to let the purity of all what I'm made up of ache.

It's the source of all this. Whatever I'm feeling in my soul is because of what I'm made up of. I wonder what it is but it definitely has got to be something very rare, as for, I've watched all of you and you all are made up of some or the other thing but not similar to mine, at all.

I gotta figure out what I'm made up of and all what can be done is to unravel this heart, for, my body has nothing to do with how I feel. If anything who I got to talk to about how I feel, it is the device which pumps blood through my body and makes me feel everything --extremely good or worst as hell-- hiding behind the fact that it keeps me alive. Yes, it does, no doubt but isn't it going to be this damn heart who will stop pumping whenever it pleases to let my loved ones or ones who love me, grieve?

It's my own, it lives inside me and even it doesn't know that I'm aware of the fact that one who claims to be the reason of keeping you alive, can become the reason to kill you, whenever they like.

I'm sure as hell going to talk to it and this cannot happen in a closed room. It needs a court, you either being judge or audience, you decide. I'll play the victim as well as the guilty, cause I can't pretend to be innocent through the whole proceeding.

If my heart is wrapped in blood, filled with blood, floating in blood, I have to admit, I too have blood on my hands.

Order, order. Have your seats, please.

Case File: Unwinding Heart.

Victim, Guilty, Witness: Miss V

Judge/Audience: You and all the people reading this.

Rule: No Silence, Please.

You don't have to stay quiet if you've something to speak.

Speak on: unwindingheart@gmail.com